


A Chance (Of Life, Of Death)

by DJ_unicornsrgr8



Series: Peter & Bucky Are Pals [9]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Boatloads and boatloads of angst, Bombs, Coma, Dissociation, Don't worry, Guilt, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Protective Bucky Barnes, Self-Blame Complexes, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Superfamily, There is NO major character death, get out your tissues, it's a sad one, lack of self-care
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-31 01:16:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 36
Words: 78,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13964208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DJ_unicornsrgr8/pseuds/DJ_unicornsrgr8
Summary: Bucky's mission was protect. Peter knew that.He just wasn't prepared for how far Bucky was willing to go to do it.--A bomb goes off on a mission, and Bucky throws himself in front of Peter. Peter gets cracked ribs and a concussion. Bucky gets off worse. Steve doesn't think he can stand losing him again.--Featuring a blizzard of angst. Whiteout conditions, folks. Drive with tissues on hand. There will be a happy ending.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Long Road Begins at Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5339822) by [owlet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlet/pseuds/owlet). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! This is going to be between 6 and 10 chapters* long; for now, I'll post a chapter per week (maybe more, not less).
> 
> *haha just kidding... Who knows how long this will be!

Peter felt the explosion shake his bones. It was impossibly loud; his ears were filled with noise, noise, and then nothing but ringing. He felt a surface pressing his back, his limbs, and something heavy on his chest… it felt like concrete. He must be on the ground, though that didn’t explain the weight on top of him. His head spun and screamed like it’d been cracked open- maybe it had. His vision wasn’t swimming, it was drowning. Everything was dark, speckled with faint flares of light. His mouth was filled with something coppery, and he choked when he opened it to gasp for air. Air. He couldn’t breathe. Something was on top of him, something heavy, crushing him like the building had… Was he dreaming? For once, he wished to see the Vulture. To be in a nightmare, instead of here. Maybe if he closed his eyes… 

 

 

\----

 

 

He wasn’t in his bed when he woke. He hadn’t opened his eyes, and he already knew that much. He inhaled, relieved when air filled his lungs, though it smelled sharp, like antiseptic. Medbay, then. It had been real. 

The next thing that registered was the burning pain in his ribs and the back of his head. He felt his eyes watering despite being closed. He wasn’t sure he wanted to open them. He could feel an IV in the crook of his arm; they were giving him something, but it wasn’t doing much. He wanted to fall asleep again. His body didn’t hurt when he was asleep, though he couldn’t say the same for his mind. He started to do just that before registering that his hand was oddly warm. He cursed his curious teenage mind, then cracked one of his eyes open to look down.

Bad idea.

The light was more agonizing than the pain in his head and ribs put together and doubled. He let out a faint sound that definitely wasn’t a whimper, wishing he could bury himself in a deep, dark hole of ice packs. Through the roaring that was still in his ears, he thought he heard someone say his name. He couldn’t bring himself to focus on the sound. The last thought he had before drifting off again was that he hoped he wasn’t worrying anyone.

\----

The next time he woke up, he felt relievingly number. They must’ve upped his painkillers, his fuzzy brain provided. He felt like he was laying on pancakes. What? Never mind. Focus, he told himself. The air still smelled on the sharper side of too clean, so he was still in the hospital. The residue in his ears had subsided to a faint ring. His hand was still weirdly warmer than the rest of his body. His surroundings weren’t painfully bright through his eyelids, so he took a chance on peeking out of his left one. No pain. The room was dim, thank god. Everything was blurry and unfocused, but he made out the unmistakable shape of Tony’s goatee by his side.

“T’ny?” he mumbled. The shape jolted and inhaled sharply, squeezing his hand. Huh, that’s why it was warm.

“Oh, thank fuck. Oh my god, kid. You scared the shit out of me, I’m not even kidding.”

“S’rry,” Peter slurred, and the Tony-blob quickly shook its head.

“It’s not your fault. How do you feel? Need more painkillers?”

“M’good. Wha’ happ’ned?” Peter tried to tilt his head and drew in a sharp breath, aborting the movement.

“Easy, easy. Don’t try and move yet. There was a bomb…”

“Bomb,” Peter repeated, trying to rack his brain for memory and failing. He blinked.

“Yeah, a bomb,” Tony sighed. “We were wrapping up in Jersey City, everyone was heading back to the Quinjet, and a bomb went off. It was hidden, there was no way anyone could’ve… Anyway, you’re going to be alright. Just a head injury and broken ribs.”

“H’ many people…”

“No civilians,” Tony said carefully, and Peter turned his head, searing pain be damned. Tony lifted his free hand and rubbed his forehead.

“Tell me,” said Peter, his voice hoarse.

“Nobody’s dead, but…”

“... But?” Peter prompted, a hint of panic spiking in the back of his mind.

“Barnes…. He hasn’t woken up yet.”

Peter’s breath caught in his chest. His vision grew blurrier, and his mouth dried. Something started beeping, and he heard Tony imploring him to breathe, please breathe… He sucked in a lungful of air, his ribs screaming in protest. It would be easier to give into the darkness edging his vision, but Bucky. He had to know about Bucky. So he forced himself to take measured breaths until Tony’s voice became clear and his goatee stopped being two goatees. 

“Why?” he finally managed. Tony hesitated, and Peter fixed him with a wretched look.

“He threw himself on top of you, kid. That’s why you have head trauma and busted ribs instead of a broken spine and a coma.”

Peter let out a shuddering breath. He didn’t wince at the pain that shot through his ribcage. “He ‘as a broken spine?”

Tony pressed his lips together as if he was chastising himself. “Yeah.”

Peter’s stomach dropped. The burning in his chest was worse than any of the pain he’d felt to date. Bucky might not wake up. And it was his fault.

\----

Tony had to leave, eventually. He combed his fingers through Peter’s hair and gave his hand one last squeeze before stepping out of the room. Very faintly, Peter could hear Pepper’s voice in the hall. She entered a minute later, her face soft and her eyes tender.

“Hey there,” she said, her tone soothing as she sat in the chair that Tony had vacated. Peter made a dull sound, and she ran her fingers over the side of his face, pulling the stiff blankets to his chin.

“Tony told you.”

“Yeah,” Peter rasped. He felt exhausted.

“It’s fifty-fifty, right now,” Pepper said gently. “He’s in the best hands. We all know he’s a fighter.”

“‘S my fault.”

“Peter, _no_. You couldn’t have known about the bomb, it was well-masked. It slipped past everyone’s radar. There was nothing you could’ve done.”

“But…” Peter didn’t really have an rebuttal; it was just his instinct to argue. Pepper shook her head.

“Rest, Peter, sweetheart. I’ll tell you if anything changes.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

\----

Four days later, Peter was released from medical, and the first thing he did was find Bucky’s room. It wasn’t hard; the concentration of doctors and nurses increased as he drew closer. A few looked like they might stop him, but he dodged them and slipped through the tall, white door. 

The first thing he noticed was Steve, looking surprisingly small in a comfy chair by the bed. The man’s eyes were red with bruise-like circles beneath them, and they widened at the sight of Peter, who shut the door behind himself silently. Peter crept forward, trembling slightly at the sight of Bucky’s prone form. He looked like he could be asleep. Peter must’ve made a sound, because he felt a large, comforting hand come to rest on his shoulder. He turned away, trying to quell the tears in his eyes.

“Hey,” Steve said, low and cracked, and Peter fell into Steve’s broad arms, which were shaking as much as he was. He sobbed into Steve’s chest for an indeterminable amount of time, until his throat burned and his eyes were dry. He was vaguely aware that Steve was crying too, and he hoped that nobody walked in and saw them like this.

“It’s my fault,” said Steve, his voice wrecked. “I should’ve seen it.”

“No, it’s my fault,” Peter croaked. “I’m the one he was trying to save.”

“It’s not your fault,” Steve told him. “It’s not. It’s on me.”

“No it _isn’t_ ,” Peter said fiercely.

“Might I suggest that neither one of you is responsible, and that the blame should be placed on the ‘dickwad’ who set the explosive?” said JARVIS. Peter spooked at the sound, and Steve tensed. “Pardon my French. I deemed it appropriate.”

Steve let out a raw noise that was too painful to be a laugh. “It was my fault.”

“I don’t believe that is correct, Captain. It was not an accident, as that implies no fault, but I am certain that neither of you are to blame. I believe the good Sergeant would be inclined to agree with me.”

“Please… don’t.”

“My apologies, Captain. I meant only to help.”

“Well, you didn’t,” Steve snapped before deflating into the chair. He dropped his head forward to rest on Peter’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I’m sorry.”

“That’s quite alright, Captain. At risk of offending you again, I would strongly recommend sleeping and eating in the coming hours. Not doing so would be a detriment to your health.”

“I’m fine, JARVIS.” Steve sounded tired.

“Very well, Captain.”

Peter rearranged himself to get a good view of Bucky, and Steve tucked a warm arm around him. The chair was big enough to fit the two of them, though not entirely side-by-side. Steve didn’t seem to mind a teenager curled on top of him; Peter didn’t think he’d mind much of anything as long as he could sit next to Bucky. Aside from nurses coming in periodically to monitor Bucky, the room stayed silently uninterrupted, and Peter could hear the faint, faint rasp of Bucky’s breath with each inhale and exhale. He focused on the sound, honing in until it was all his ears knew. Steve’s eyes never left the rise and fall of Bucky’s chest. And so they sat.

\----

Hill came in that evening. Peter didn’t notice her until she was standing right beside them. She said something, but it didn’t register in his brain. Steve replied, his voice barely audible, even to Peter. Hill spoke again, her hand touching Peter’s arm. He didn’t make the effort to listen. Maybe she’d go away if he ignored her. He felt a pang of guilt; she was probably just trying to help, but he decided to ignore that, too. She didn’t leave, but she didn’t try to talk to him again. Or if she did, he was too focused on Bucky’s breath to catch anything.

She stood by their chair for what Peter guessed was half an hour, exchanging words with Steve in a quiet voice that made Peter loosen only semi-consciously. In contrast, Steve seemed to stiffen slightly during the conversation, which worried Peter enough to let a few words filter into his brain. He caught “should rest” and “hungry” before narrowing his perimeter back to Bucky. It wasn’t news, then. Just a well-meaning attempt at getting them to leave. Peter wasn’t leaving, and he doubted Steve would either.

\----

Natasha was a variable that Peter hadn’t accounted for. She managed to bully Steve into leaving within five minutes of her arrival; he reluctantly slid out from under Peter and trudged somewhat floppily to the door. Peter caught a glimpse of Sam waiting outside, wrapping an arm around Steve’s shoulders before the door swung shut. Natasha didn’t follow them. Crap, Peter’s brain provided.

“Peter,” she said softly.

“No.”

“You need to eat and sleep.”

“No.”

“Barnes would want you to take care of yourself.”

“Well, he’s in a coma,” Peter hissed, ignoring his watery eyes. For once, he felt like a child. “And it’s my fault.”

“It’s not your fault, Peter,” Natasha started, and he stopped listening. It was absolutely his fault. She didn’t know what she was talking about. He stifled a whimper, stuffing his knuckles in his mouth and leaning closer to Bucky’s bed. He felt gentle hands on his shoulders, trying to guide him away, and he gripped the bed frame so tightly that a crowbar couldn’t have pried him off.

Natasha must’ve realized that, because she stopped trying to lift him up. Instead, she wedged herself in the chair beside him and settled into a rhythm of dragging her hand over his back. Slowly, he melted into the contact, his head coming to rest on the edge of the bed despite his hands still being clenched to the frame. She didn’t try to take him away again. She was sneaky; he didn’t trust her entirely, so he didn’t sleep, but dozed in and out of full awareness as she ran her hand across his back. 

He wasn’t sure how long she sat with him, but eventually Clint appeared in the doorway, carrying something in his hands. Based on the smell, it was food, maybe pasta of some kind. Peter didn’t lift his head, decidedly not hungry. 

“Hey, Peter-Man. I brought mac n’ cheese. Can you sit up for me, buddy?”

Peter remained limp. He briefly considered resisting when Natasha pulled him upright, but he didn’t want to make a scene around the medical equipment. He’d already hurt Bucky enough. Clint pressed a spoon into his hand and set the container of mac n’ cheese in his lap, looking at him expectantly. When he didn’t eat, Clint frowned.

“C’mon, bud. Gotta get some food in you.”

Peter didn’t reply, and Clint gave Natasha a panicked look. Peter felt a hand wrap around his, helping him scoop up a bite of mac n’ cheese and lift it towards his face. He opened his mouth automatically and surprised himself by chewing and swallowing. Maybe he did need food. He took the next bite by himself, and Clint seemed relieved.

“No mac n’ cheese for me?” Natasha said to Clint with a fraction of a smile. Clint shook his head.

“You have to get it yourself. Only Petey-pie gets room service.”

Natasha stood up and murmured something to Clint that Peter could’ve caught if he was paying more attention; she was quickly replaced in the chair by Clint, who gave Natasha a little wave as she headed for the door. She offered a quirk of her lips in return. Clint shifted, making himself as comfortable as he could while squished in beside Peter, and began to talk quietly. He didn’t seem to mind that Peter wasn’t paying attention, apparently content to ramble one-sidedly about… Brazilian food? 

In any other situation, Peter probably would’ve been at least slightly interested. Bucky would’ve been too. Peter’s stomach twisted at the thought, and he set down his spoon; there were only a few bites left. Clint frowned, but didn’t press him to finish. He switched topics and Peter stopped listening entirely, his world consisting only of Bucky’s slow breaths. In... out. In... out.

\----

He woke up -he didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep- to a quiet voice above him. Not Clint’s, but Tony’s. He paused to make sure he could still hear Bucky’s breaths before tuning in to what Tony was saying.

“... think you’re going to wake up, but people are fucked up around here without you. I know the research is iffy, but if you can hear me… just… I owe you one, Barnes. I’m still not over my mom, but you saved Peter, and that…” Tony exhaled. “The kid means a lot to me. I know he means a lot to you too. I don’t know what I’d do without him, but I don’t know what he’ll do without you. Cap, too. So… hang in there. Try to… We need you, Elsa, alright? Wake up.”

Peter waited until Tony had been silent for a minute before shifting and yawning. Tony pressed his lips together in what didn’t quite qualify as a smile.

“Hey, kid.”

“Hey,” Peter mumbled, blinking.

“You slept about five hours. We’re going to do some scans on him, to check his brain activity,” Tony said. Peter’s stomach dropped.

“I have to leave?”

“For a little while. I think Cap could use some company, if your bed doesn’t sound appealing.”

Peter nodded slowly. He reached out and hovered a hand over Bucky’s flesh one, brushing his fingers across Bucky’s knuckles before letting Tony help him to his feet. He wobbled a little, and Tony secured an arm around his waist. He leaned on Tony as he walked, lacking the energy to lift his head from Tony’s shoulder.

The elevator took them to Steve and Bucky’s floor, where Sam answered the door with a finger pressed to his lips. He motioned to the couch, where Steve was dozing restlessly. Tony, for once, said nothing, just nodded and gestured to Peter. Sam bent down and scooped Peter up like a toddler, mouthing something to Tony before gently pushing the door shut. Peter limply let himself be carried past the couch and down the hall to a sparsely decorated room, where a messy bed sat across from a chair that had a familiar leather jacket strewn across it. 

The first thing that Peter registered when Sam laid him down was that the bed smelled like Bucky; he gathered up an armful of the sheets, pulling them to his chest and burying his face in them. He trembled, and Sam ran a hand over his back like Natasha had.

“Sam?” a hoarse voice called, and Sam’s hand stilled.

“In here,” Sam replied, and Steve appeared in the doorway a few seconds later, looking fragmented. Peter closed his eyes. He didn’t want Steve to see him like this. Steve had known Bucky for a lifetime, he’d only known Bucky for a year. He shouldn’t be so upset, not when Steve was probably feeling a hundred times worse. And it was his fault. Steve should hate him. It was his fault that Bucky might not wake up.

He heard someone sobbing and pulled himself out of his head, suddenly realizing that it was _himself_ making the noise. Crap. He bit down on the back of his hand to shut himself up, curling in on himself and hoping that Steve wasn’t watching him. He felt a heavy weight settle into the mattress beside him and clenched his jaw harder, determined not to let anything else escape.

“Barnes ‘ll pull through,” Sam said gently. “He always does.”

“I hope you’re right,” Steve replied, sounding scratchy. 

Peter pictured Bucky laying there, unresponsive, and his chest twisted so hard that he forgot how to breathe. It hurt, burned, but it was sickly satisfying. He deserved it, he thought to himself, as Sam exhorted him to take deep breaths. In the end, his body gave in before he did. The hand on his back coaxed his lungs into sucking in gulps of air, and the ringing in his ears died down.

“Atta boy. Nice, slow breaths. Do you think you can get some sleep?”

Peter wished he was asleep. He wished he could fall asleep and never wake up. But since the world really seemed to hate him, all he got was restless, nightmare-filled intervals that left him whimpering for May.

\------

Feeling sad? Here, have a wonderful [meme](https://bow-ties-and-daydreams.tumblr.com/post/171759165594/a-shitty-meme-for-a-fantastic-series-i-really) about this series made by QueenZ17. Also, here's some virtual hugs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! Comments are appreciated and requests are welcome, though my list is about a mile long so I won't be able to write anything right away. (If your request is for romantic/sexual relationships, I'm afraid I can't do that, being aro and ace. My apologies!)
> 
> ~~
> 
> Dedicated to R, who passed away in a coma a few days ago. A heartbreaking reminder that not all stories have such happy endings, though this one will.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More angst, I'm afraid, but there's hope on the horizon!

The chances were still fifty-fifty, Peter had been told by a reluctant Bruce. Bucky was a five on the [Glasgow Coma Scale](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glasgow_Coma_Scale). An average person would have little to no chance of waking. With the serum, there was no way of telling how effectively the damage could be repaired. Peter had missed nearly a week of school; nobody had succeeded in convincing him to leave Bucky’s room. Probably because Steve was the most persuasive, and Steve would be a damn hypocrite to tell Peter to clear out. The man was almost as unyielding as Peter. The furthest either of them had gone since Sam had left back for DC was to the bathroom next door.

 

 

\----

 

 

It was getting late- or at least Peter’s eyes were starting to burn from keeping themselves open. The room Bucky was in had no windows, and Peter couldn’t remember the last time he’d bothered checking what time it was. It could be noon for all he knew. His left foot was starting to fall asleep, so he rearranged himself, stretching his legs out across Steve’s and staring down into Bucky’s pale eyes. 

… wait.

Peter shook himself, pinching his thigh viciously to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. The pain was sharp, and then it wasn’t because adrenaline was flooding his body and he was shaking Steve into alertness.

“What? What?!” Steve sounded utterly panicked, nearly throwing Peter from his lap. Peter gripped his arm tight enough to break anyone normal.

“Look,” Peter said, his voice strangled. Steve’s head spun fast enough to give him whiplash, and he drew in a choked breath at the sight of Bucky’s open eyes. He lifted a shaking hand, hovering it over Bucky’s flesh one, but he pulled it away at the last minute as if he was afraid to touch.

“Buck?” he managed. Peter held his breath. Bucky blinked slowly, and Steve made a sound like he’d been punched. “Go… go get…”

Peter scrambled to his feet and skidded out the door, nearly running into a woman in scrubs as he turned the corner.

“He’s… his eyes are open, you have to-” Peter tugged at the lady’s wrist, wide-eyed and frantic. The nurse hurried after him back to the room, where Steve was trembling at the edge of his seat. Bucky’s eyes were closed. Peter felt like his chest might collapse.

“His eyes were open,” Steve said, seemingly not even trying to mask how badly his voice was shaking. “Just for a minute, but… but he opened his eyes and he blinked when I said his name. Is that…”

“That’s good news,” the nurse replied evenly. “That’s a sign that he’s healing. I’ll go get the doctor, we’ll repeat the scans, but that’s definitely progress.”

Steve melted back into the chair, and Peter could feel the relief shedding off him in thick waves. His eyes glistened with moisture. Peter let out a long breath that he must’ve been holding; his legs buckled and he fell to his knees. Progress. The nurse crouched down beside him, worried, but he waved her off.

“M’fine.”

She looked dubious, but hurried out the door. Peter lifted his head, fixing his gaze on the bed, on what he could see of Bucky. In the corner of his eye, Steve visibly pulled himself together and stood, holding out a hand. Peter took it, and Steve helped him to his feet. He meant to say “thanks,” but what came out was “progress.”

“Progress,” Steve agreed. He took a breath. “They’re going to do more scans. We should… They’ll want us to go.”

Peter bit his lip. “Yeah.”

Neither of them moved, though, not until Bruce came in with a team at his heels and shooed them out with an apologetic grimace. Peter followed Steve blindly into the hall; they ended up in the elevator, which took them up to the shared floor. Clint looked up from the couch, his eyes widening slightly. He looked like wanted to ask something, but couldn’t bring himself to. 

“Nat!” he called. Natasha popped her head out of the kitchen, surprise flashing across her face for a millisecond before it vanished. She marched over, taking each of them by an elbow and leading them to the couch, which Clint vacated surprisingly without protest.

“Make hot cocoa,” she ordered him. He nodded, disappearing through the kitchen’s wide doorway. She took a seat on the coffee table, just a few feet away from Steve and Peter.

“Good or bad news?” she asked calmly.

“Good,” Steve said, his voice rough. “He opened his eyes for a minute. They’re doing more scans.”

“You don’t look like you just got good news.”

“I just… I don’t want to get my hopes up,” said Steve, wavering. Natasha put a hand on his knee and squeezed. Clint scurried over with a bag of chips, which he handed to Peter.

“I’m not really-”

“Nuh uh, don’t say it. I want those chips gone by the time I’m back with the cocoa.”

Peter was too tired to argue, so he opened the chips and placed one in his mouth. Clint gave an approving nod before disappearing again.

“I’m not going to tell you to get your hopes up,” Natasha said carefully to Steve. “You know I’m not an optimist. But my gut says he’ll pull through, and I’m usually right.”

“But what if he doesn’t?” Steve whispered.

“Prepare for all outcomes. Have a support system. Go to therapy and sort out your guilt complex.” Natasha turned to Peter. “That goes for you, too. No wasting away, blaming yourself for a decision that you didn’t make.”

“But I should’ve-”

“No.” Natasha cut off Peter sharply. “No should’ve’s. You’ll kill yourself with those.”

Peter lowered his head. Natasha’s hand brushed his cheek, tilting his face back up.

“There was nothing you could’ve done,” she said, her voice softer. “He made his choice.”

Peter nodded, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. Natasha swiped a thumb beneath his eye, wiping away a stray tear before letting her hand drop. She turned to look at Steve; his breaths were short and his hands were trembling ever-so-slightly on his knees. He clenched his jaw, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“Hey,” Natasha murmured, and the word seemed to dissolve Steve to the core. He slumped forward, head spilling down onto her knee; he let out a horrible sob that made Peter want to break down in turn. She lifted a hand to the back of Steve’s neck and rubbed tiny circles as he shuddered. He didn’t let out any more sound, but a damp spot was spreading across the fabric covering Natasha’s knee. 

Peter heard footsteps tap up to the couch and Pepper came into view; it was a testament to how miserable Steve was that he didn’t look up or try to pull himself together. Pepper sat down between Peter and the end of the couch, tucking him warmly beneath her arm. He melted into the contact, sniffling a little bit as she wove her fingers through his disheveled hair. He heard a faint clank and felt Clint press a warm mug into his hands, which he drew close to his chest. The heat was pleasant and when he took a small sip, the cocoa didn’t burn his tongue.

Clint picked up the remote and turned on the TV, clicking through channels until he found The Simpsons. Peter stared at the screen without paying any attention to what was going on. He felt numb. It hadn’t been so bad since the months after May passed, and Peter banished the thought because Bucky _wasn’t_ going to die; he couldn’t. The thought made him convulse, and he nearly spilled his cocoa. He heard Pepper say something, sounding worried.

“M’fine,” he mumbled, keeping his unfocused eyes on the TV. He took another sip of his cocoa, willing it to soothe his twisting stomach. Pepper pressed a kiss to his hairline. He fought the instinct to shrink away, undeserving of her love. It wasn’t up to him to decide, he told himself; that’s what Natasha would say. 

He chanced a glance at Steve, who hadn’t lifted his head from Natasha’s knee. She had a soothing hand on the back of his neck, and she met Peter’s eyes with an uncharacteristic gentleness. She offered a sad quirk of her lips before looking back to Steve, who had started trembling again. Peter turned his gaze away; it didn’t feel right to watch. A heavy lump of emotion returned to his throat, and he took a swallow of cocoa in attempt to wash it away. He wished for the numbness back.

“Sergeant Barnes’s scans have been completed,” said JARVIS, the TV audio cutting as his voice filtered through the speakers. Steve sat bolt upright. “They show that the condition of his brain is improving, and suspect that he will begin to react to his surroundings within the next several days. The extent of the damage to his spine is still unclear. Based on the healing of both Captain Rogers’s and his previous injuries, they believe that it is possible that he will be able to walk again, though there is no way of being certain. This is uncharted territory, and it is unclear how effectively the human body can repair itself, even with the serum.”

Nobody spoke. Steve tilted forward, letting out a sob of relief that was painfully loud in the otherwise silent room. Peter staggered to his feet, slipping out of Pepper’s grip and stumbling towards the elevator. He had to go back to Bucky’s room. Steve must’ve had the same idea, because Peter became aware of someone tall and broad standing beside him as the elevator descended to the medbay. His brain was fuzzy with exhaustion; not necessarily the physical kind, but it dampened his awareness and made his body feel like rubber just the same. He managed to stay upright as they made their way to Bucky’s room, then collapsed into the large chair by the bed. Steve joined him, looking about as messy as he felt. 

Bucky’s eyes were closed, and Peter focused in on his slow breaths, blocking out the beeping machines and footsteps passing in the hall. He wasn’t sure how much time passed before his own consciousness ebbed, his eyes unable to force themselves open any longer.

 

\----

 

Peter woke to a strong hand gripping his arm; his eyes shot open and he would’ve struggled if the first thing he saw hadn’t been Steve, pale and tight-faced. Peter followed his anxious gaze to the bed, where Bucky lay prone; his eyes were open, and Peter sucked in a breath. Steve opened and closed his mouth several times, as if he was afraid that speaking would ruin everything. 

“Buck?” he finally said, his voice hoarse. “Can you hear me? Blink twice if you can hear me.”

Peter held his breath. Bucky blinked once, then again, and Steve looked like he’d been gutted. He leaned forward, hovering with shaky hands. Bucky blinked again at the sight of him.

“You’re gonna be alright, Buck,” Steve said shakily. “Just… get some rest. I’ll be right here.”

Bucky’s eyes slid shut, and Steve let out a breath and wiped away the tears that were leaking down his own stubbly cheeks. He was still gripping Peter’s arm; the bags under his eyes were heavier than ever. He looked terrible.

“I’ll watch him,” Peter said. “You can rest.”

Steve hesitated, but Peter pressed his lips together in a frown and Steve conceded, leaning back into the chair exhaustedly. His breaths evened out within a few minutes, and Peter sat still so as not to wake him. He kept his eyes glued to Bucky’s face, and after a period of debate, he reached forward and took Bucky’s flesh hand. It was cool to the touch, which struck Peter as odd; Steve and Bucky were always warm. Maybe his circulation was poor from the lack of motion, Peter thought. Or maybe it meant something was wrong. Peter pressed the nurse call button; a young man in scrubs appeared in less than a minute.

“Is it normal that he’s cold?” Peter whispered. Steve twitched at the sound, but didn’t wake.

“It’s not out of the ordinary, considering the situation,” the nurse replied softly. “I can get another blanket.”

Peter nodded. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. The nurse waited for him to speak, but he shook his head. The nurse disappeared through the doorway, returning with a thick blanket tucked under his arm, which he unfolded and spread on top of Bucky. Peter shot him a grateful look.

“Is there something else you wanted to ask?” said the nurse, his voice quiet. Peter hesitated before speaking.

“Would it… be okay if I…?” Peter gestured to the bed.

“As long as you don’t jostle any tubes,” the nurse replied kindly.

“Thank you,” Peter exhaled.

The nurse smiled before slipping out into the hall. Peter stood up slowly; to his relief, Steve didn’t wake at his absence. He climbed onto Bucky’s bed, curling up at the very edge, keeping a watchful eye on Bucky’s prone form. He pulled Bucky’s arm to his chest like a teddy bear, lacing his fingers with Bucky’s pliant ones carefully. His gaze never wavered from Bucky’s face; behind him, Steve slept on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments are much appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little bit more angst...

The next time Bucky opened his eyes, Steve was still asleep and Peter had been brought two different meals by Tony, and then Hill and Natasha. They’d brought food for Steve, too, but nobody seemed to want to wake him. Bucky’s eyelids fluttered, and with what seemed like great effort, he tilted his head slightly to look over at Steve. Before Peter could move, Bucky opened his mouth, but all that came out was a cracked sound. Peter slammed the nurse call button and shook Steve awake as fast as he could. Steve jerked upright and a nurse rushed in moments later.

“He’s awake,” Peter said urgently. “I think he tried to say something…”

“I’ll go get some crushed ice,” the nurse replied. “His throat is probably very dry, seeing as he’s been getting his fluids intravenously.”

“Hey, Buck,” Steve was saying. “Everything’s okay. You got hurt real bad, but they think you’ll be just fine. God, I’m so glad…”

Bucky tried to lift his head and groaned, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. Peter’s lip trembled. Bucky was in pain, and he was the cause of it. He must’ve made a sound, because Bucky’s eyes were searching for him and his flesh fingers twitched where they were resting on the blankets. Peter scooted away; he couldn’t stand it if Bucky worried about him on top of everything else.

The nurse returned with a cup of crushed ice, handing it and a spoon to Steve before adjusting the bed to tilt Bucky up slightly. Steve scooped up a small chunk of ice and tipped it into Bucky’s mouth; Peter watched from out of Bucky’s sight. After half the small cup was gone, Bucky made another attempt at speaking. His voice was unintelligible at first, but he coughed and kept trying.

“E-er. O-ay. Z Pe-ter okay.”

“Peter?” Steve said.

“Yes,” Bucky rasped.

“Peter’s here, he’s just fine. You saved him, Buck.”

That must’ve been what Bucky was looking for, because his eyes drifted shut and his breaths leveled out into unconsciousness. Steve’s hand clutching the cup trembled, and he set it down before clasping his fingers together tightly. Peter sniffled, wiping at his eyes. Steve turned to look at him, and he fled. He couldn’t bear Steve’s gentle eyes; he didn’t deserve them. He heard Steve call after him, but nobody followed as he darted to the elevator and slid down to the floor as the doors glided shut.

“May I take you to Mr. Stark or Mrs. Potts?” JARVIS asked. Peter shook his head.

“Can I go to the roof, please?” His voice wobbled as he spoke.

“May I acquire your purpose in doing so?” 

“I j-just want to…” Peter took a shaky breath, and when he spoke next, it was with complete apathy. “Can I go to the gym?”

“You may, although I am still required to notify Mr. Stark of your acute emotional distress.”

“Alright,” Peter muttered. He was still sitting down when the elevator doors opened; he hauled himself up and trudged out into the gym, only noticing Natasha and Clint when it was too late.

“Petey-Pie, what’s wrong?” Clint asked, his voice unusually soft. Peter backed away as Clint approached and Clint stopped, holding up his hands. “Can you talk to me, buddy?”

“I’m fine,” Peter said stiffly. He skirted Clint and Natasha and headed for the punching bags, giving one a satisfactory wallop. Before he could continue, a hand caught his wrist, and he spun around, face contorted into a growl. Natasha didn’t flinch, almost looking bored as she held up bundled handwraps. 

“No bloody knuckles on my watch,” she said, calm and businesslike. Peter relented, allowing her to wrap his hands before attacking the punching bag with all his remaining strength. It was one of Steve’s, he realized, when it didn’t break apart. He paused; he didn’t deserve something so nice, but he didn’t want to go breaking things, either. This was the lesser of two evils, he decided before he went back at the bag with a renewed vigor. He closed his eyes and pretended his fists were making contact with his own chest, his stomach, his face. 

Idiot. Idiot. Stupid. Fucking. Idiot. You. Ruin. Everything. Eve-ry-thing. Each syllable was a resounding thud of knuckles on sand-filled leather.

His throat was dry, both from pain and dehydration. He wasn’t sure if it was speed or dizziness blurring his punches.

He slammed his balled-up hands into the bag until something snapped inside him; his limbs went slack and he collapsed to the mats on the ground. A heavy sob fell from his chest, and he halfheartedly tried to shove Clint and Natasha away as they crouched worriedly beside him. Clint rested a hand on his shoulder while Natasha deftly pulled the wraps from his hands.

“You’re done for the day,” she told him, and he couldn’t bring himself to protest. The numb apathy was returning. He was limp as Clint lifted him up, carrying him to the elevator and back out onto a floor he’d never been on. Natasha unlocked a door that opened to reveal an apartment like Steve and Bucky’s; it dawned on him in the back of his mind that this must be where Clint and Natasha lived.

Clint laid him on the couch, grabbing a blanket from a nearby armchair and spreading it over him. The fabric was soft, softer than he was entitled to; if he had any energy, he’d throw it off of himself. Natasha sat in the armchair, crossing her legs and perching a book in her lap. Peter saw her exchange looks with Clint; she nodded slightly and Clint disappeared. 

A few moments later, soft music was filling the room and Peter could hear the faint clanking of dishes in the kitchen. Low whistling accompanied the melody; it was surprisingly on-key, Peter thought distantly. He could feel Natasha’s eyes skirt over to him periodically and made no effort to acknowledge her. 

During one song, Clint started to sing. It wasn’t quite enough to shake Peter from his dulled state, but he felt himself blink several times. Like Bucky had. The thought pierced his haze and made him shudder hard before he went lax again. He saw Natasha stand out of the corner of his eye; she slipped out of sight before returning with another blanket, which she pulled over the first. Peter averted his gaze as she returned to her seat. He wished he could disappear into nothingness.

In the kitchen, Clint’s voice was still audible as he hummed along to something folksy. The smell of soy sauce and vegetables was wafting across the apartment, making Natasha lift her head from her book. 

“That smells good,” she told Clint. 

“It’ll be done in a few minutes,” he replied brightly. Natasha nodded in appreciation. Peter kept his eyes trained on the opposite wall until Clint came over, nudging him upright and handing him a plate of stir fry. He ate listlessly, taking small bites and chewing in excess to draw out the time. Clint sat beside him, talking with Natasha as they ate about something Peter didn’t bother paying attention to. He doubted it was important.

It took him twenty minutes longer than Clint and Natasha to finish his food. Clint took his plate when he was done, and he slumped back against the cushions. He could feel Natasha’s eyes on him; he hoped she didn’t try to talk to him. Unfortunately, his luck had run dry.

“Any reason you’re not down in Barnes’s room?” she asked with a casual air. He shrugged.

“Didn’t feel like it.” He tried to mirror her tone, but his voice cracked, giving him away. Natasha leaned forward in her chair, propping her chin on her fist. Her eyes were acutely shrewd, and for a moment Peter felt like she could read his mind.

“I heard he woke up,” she said.

Peter didn’t reply.

“Steve said you ran out.”

Fucking Steve.

“He’s worried about you. We’re all worried about you.”

“That’s the _problem_ ,” Peter said wretchedly. “He’s worried about me when he should be worrying about Bucky. It’s my fault, and Steve’s worried about _me_. He should hate me. I’m the reason Bucky almost died and… and…” Peter dissolved into sobs that wracked his entire body; in the back of his mind, a little voice hoped they’d rip him apart. 

“Hey,” Clint soothed, and Peter wrenched himself away from Clint’s outstretched hands.

“No! You can’t… I don’t d-deserve… Get away from me!”

“Alright,” Clint said gently. “I’m going to stay over by Nat. But can you listen to me, Peter?”

Peter hiccuped, dragging his hands roughly beneath his eyes. He twisted, pressing his face into the cushions.

“Peter,” Clint implored. “Can you listen?”

Peter wanted to say no, but Clint’s voice was soft and the comfort pulled him in. He nodded slightly, cursing himself for being so weak.

“You’re thinking that you don’t deserve comfort. That’s because you feel guilty, right?”

Peter nodded again.

“Why do you feel guilty?”

“Because it’s my fault!”

“Was it my fault that I killed people when you-know-who had the tesseract?”

“No,” Peter said, his voice cracked and muffled by the couch. “But that’s different.”

“Sure, the circumstances are,” Clint replied. “But fundamentally, not so much. The situation was out of my control. There was nothing I could’ve done. Do I blame myself? Yeah. Do I feel guilty? Yeah. Of course I do. But I also recognize that those thoughts are irrational. I’m not asking you to change how you feel, I’m just asking you to listen to yourself.”

Peter gritted his teeth, twisting the blankets beneath his hands. He hated logic.

“Barnes made his decision,” Natasha said softly. “He chose to protect you. I know it’s hard, but you have to try to respect that.”

“When…” Peter swallowed, trying to steady his voice. “When he w-woke up, the first thing he d-did was ask about me. He almost _died_ for me and… and…”

“He cares a whole lot about you,” said Clint. “A whole lot, kiddo.”

“ _Why_?”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! Comments are appreciated! I promise things get less angsty soon; if someone reminds me, I can post the next chapter sometime this weekend! (Otherwise I might not remember until mid-week; I tend to be forgetful when I'm busy!)
> 
> *When Peter asks to go to the roof, he doesn't have any intention of jumping. He just wants to be alone somewhere high-up. It comforts him in an odd way. JARVIS, however, doesn't want to take any chances.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get better! Will it last? Who knows...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any dialogue in languages other than English have hyperlinks; just hover your mouse over the test to see the translation! Translations are also in the end notes if you're on mobile.

Peter stood outside Bucky’s room in the medbay, trying to will himself to push the door open. He wanted more than anything to see Bucky, sit with him until he woke again, but his twisted conscience held him back. He didn’t deserve- _no_ , he reprimanded himself. Natasha said it wasn’t his fault. Clint said it wasn’t his fault. He trusted them… but what if they were just saying that? What if they blamed him, what if everyone blamed him, what if they just pretended to like him because- _no!_ No no no. He wanted to see Bucky; he put his hand on the door, and then he remembered Steve.

Steve was in there. Steve was Bucky’s other half, and Bucky had almost died, and Steve _must_ blame him. He turned away, rubbing a hand across his face. Steve hadn’t shown it, but maybe he was a good actor. Maybe he-

“Is everything okay?” a gentle voice asked, and Peter spun around to find one of the nurses, the young man. Peter faked his best smile, an expression he hadn’t made in upwards of two weeks.

“I’m fine.”

The man arched an eyebrow, and Peter dropped his facade.

“I just… what if everyone hates me?” His voice was unbearably small.

“Nobody hates you,” the nurse said soothingly. “Especially neither of those men in there. I’m sure it would make Captain Rogers happy to see you.”

Peter stepped back up to the door and the nurse opened it, giving him a little nudge inside. Steve’s head snapped up, and Peter thought he saw relief on Steve’s face before he made himself look away. Holding eye contact was too daunting.

“Has he woken up again?” he asked, barely audible.

“Once. He asked for you,” Steve replied. “Are you alright? You ran out of here pretty quick.”

Peter twisted his foot on the tile floor, shamefaced. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

Peter didn’t answer for long enough that Steve resettled himself in the chair, motioning for Peter to join him. When Peter didn’t, he looked up again; Peter could feel his sharp blue eyes from across the room.

“Do you hate me?” Peter finally mustered the courage to ask.

“No! God, no. What makes you think that? Have I done something?”

Peter shook his head hurriedly. “Just… I’m the reason that he’s…” He gestured to Bucky. Steve’s face softened. 

“It’s not your fault.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t blame me.”

“I don’t blame you,” Steve insisted. “There’s no point in blaming you. You’re not responsible.”

Peter bit his lip.

“You’re not,” Steve said. “I promise.”

His strong voice must’ve been enough to wake Bucky, because Bucky tilted his head towards Steve, his eyes fluttering open. “S’tevie?”

“I’m right here,” Steve said, leaning forward. “Right here, Buck.”

“I can’t feel my legs, Stevie,” Bucky murmured. “Are they gone, too?”

Steve shook his head, his breath audibly catching in his chest. Bucky tried to lift his hand.

“S’alright, Stevie. Don’ worry.”

Steve inhaled deeply, giving Bucky a tight smile. Bucky blinked, and something fearful crossed his face.

“Peter. Where’s Peter? You said…”

“He’s okay,” Steve replied. “He’s right here.”

Steve’s hand wrapped around Peter’s wrist and tugged him to the side of the bed; the lines of worry on Bucky’s face dissipated at the sight of him.

“You’re alright,” Bucky murmured, relieved. Peter nodded, unable to speak for fear of emotion bubbling out. It must’ve shown on his face, because Bucky tried to pat the blankets, motioning for Peter to sit. Peter obeyed, perching himself on the edge of the bed. Bucky studied him, frowning slightly.

“You haven’t been taking care of yourself. Just as bad as Stevie.”

Peter ducked his head guiltily and tried to swallow the lump in the back of his throat.

“Hey,” Bucky said, his voice surprisingly soft. “S’okay. Come here.”

Peter curled meekly into a ball; he felt Bucky’s fingers trail through his hair and shuddered.

“Pull up the blankets, Stevie,” he heard Bucky say, and something soft covered him. He shifted closer to Bucky, pressing his ear to Bucky’s gown-covered torso so he could listen to the thump-thump of Bucky’s heartbeat resonating through his ribcage. Bucky’s arm came to rest against Peter’s back, and Peter closed his eyes. To his relief, the sleep that came was entirely dreamless.

 

\----

 

Peter woke to the sound of low voices and Bucky’s hand twitching against his back. He opened his eyes and peered around groggily to find Steve talking to two doctors before looking up at Bucky, hoping desperately to find him awake. A familiar set of pale eyes met Peter, and he exhaled in relief.

“They need to do scans,” Bucky told him. “They’re gonna drug me up so I don’t…” he trailed off, and Peter nodded. 

“I have to go?”

“No. But you should. Go take a bath. You n’ Steve stink.”

“I don’t,” Steve protested, turning to face Bucky. Peter gave himself a sniff and felt his cheeks go pink, embarrassed. 

“Steve’s worse,” Bucky told him, and Steve only had the heart to look a little bit offended. “Go, both of you. I’ll call Romanova if you don’t.”

“Pulling out the big guns,” one of the doctors commented. The other seemed to be trying very hard not to laugh at Steve’s put-out expression. Steve grumbled but headed for the door, though only after giving Bucky’s hand a squeeze. Peter took a little longer, rubbing his eyes and savoring the fond look that Bucky was giving him before following Steve.

“I don’t smell,” Steve muttered as they stepped into the elevator. 

“Although I do not have a nose, I would disagree with you, Captain,” said JARVIS, and Steve looked properly offended this time.

“How do you know?”

“You have not showered in over a week. Based on your normal bathing schedule, I’ve determined that you have most likely accumulated a fair amount of body odor. Additionally, Mr. Parker’s expression suggests that he agrees with me.”

Steve looked over to Peter, who averted his eyes in favor of gazing at the floor. With perfect timing, the elevator door opened; Hill stepped in, gave Peter and Steve a sniff, and slipped out of the elevator as the door was closing.

“Take a shower!” they heard her call.

“Case in point,” JARVIS said, sounding faintly smug. Steve raised his hands in defeat.

“Fine.”

The door opened again a few floors up, and Tony ambled in from his workshop. He got a good whiff of Peter and Steve and made a face.

“Whew! Is Barnes awake? I don’t know how I’d be unconscious if I had the two of you at my bedside smelling like _that_.”

Steve frowned, but deigned to ignore the latter part of the comment. “He’s awake. They’re doing more scans. He said he couldn’t feel his legs…”

Tony’s face reshaped itself into something more serious. “We’ll work it out. Rhodey offered to come see him, you know, because he’s also- Just let me know if Barnes wants to talk to someone who gets it.”

Steve’s face went hard, then softer. “Thanks, Tony.”

“Sure.” Tony lifted his arm as if to grip Steve’s shoulder, but wrinkled his nose and drew back, thinking better of it. “Take a shower. You smell like death.”

Steve didn’t get a chance to reply before Tony was turning to Peter, drawing him in for a hug despite his ripeness.

“Holding up okay, kiddo?”

“Better,” Peter said honestly. 

“Good. You need anything, you let me know, alright? Pepper and I have been worried about you.”

Peter ducked his head. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for. If anything, I’m sorry for not being there enough. Bruce and I found something, I got in over my head, almost blew up the lab, the usual.”

“What did you find?” Peter asked. Tony’s face brightened, relieved that Peter was showing curiosity. 

“We think it’s Chitauri-related. It’s giving off similar waves, but something’s off about it. It doesn’t mix well with explosives, which, I mean, _nothing_ really mixes well with explosives, but it did some funky stuff that we need to test further.”

The elevator opened to the common floor, where Tony made his exit. Peter was pretty sure he heard him start to sing “pee-ew the captain smells” to the tune of “ding dong the witch is dead” as the door slid shut again. Based off the look on Steve’s face, he discerned something similar. The elevator continued up until it stopped on Steve and Bucky’s floor.

“You can come down here when you’re done with your shower,” Steve offered. Peter nodded gratefully.

“Thanks.”

Steve gave him a small smile and the elevator door glided shut, rising the last couple floors to Peter’s room. Peter made his way inside, looking around and realizing suddenly that he hadn’t set foot in his room in more than two weeks. It was an odd feeling; he moved almost mechanically across to the bathroom, stripping off his clothes and stepping into the shower. Water ran down his skin in rivulets; he picked up his bar of soap, starting by lathering his arms and then working his way down the rest of his body. 

When he’d scrubbed every inch of himself, he grabbed the shampoo and worked it into his greasy hair. The brown strands were still matted once he’d washed it out, so he poured another dollop of shampoo, working his fingers through his hair until it ran smooth. He massaged in conditioner, pausing to make the water hotter before he rinsed. He stood there for a minute, letting the scalding water wash over him before reaching to twist the faucet off.

He grabbed a towel to dry himself off; he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and froze. There were heavy bags beneath his eyes, and he looked notably skinnier than he had in the past year or so. He didn’t think he’d looked this bad since May had…

He shook himself, wiping the water from his prickling skin and heading back into his room to get dressed. He pulled on a long-sleeved shirt and sweats, grabbing a pair of fuzzy socks that Bucky had leant him and he hadn’t given back. He padded back out to the elevator, which took him down to Steve and Bucky’s apartment. He knocked, and Steve called for him to come in. He slipped inside and found Steve peering into the fridge, frowning.

“Did everything go bad?” Peter asked.

“You would think so… But no, there’s nothing in here. Someone must’ve thrown things out.”

“That’s probably a good thing,” Peter said, and Steve nodded.

“Probably. We could go up to the common floor and get something?”

“Sure.” Peter shrugged.

“May I suggest waiting? I believe you have guests coming, Captain Rogers,” said JARVIS. Steve’s brow furrowed.

“Guests?”

There was a knock on the door, and Steve slowly moved to open it. Standing outside was a worried Esther, a cat-carrier wielding Ollie, and a fuming Lidia. Before Steve could get any words out, Lidia was descending on him.

“Two weeks! Jimmy’s been injured for two weeks, and you never called to let us know! This is unacceptable, Steven! If I had a handbag, I’d give you a proper clout, I would!”

Steve cowered, which was comical seeing as Lidia was at least a foot shorter than him. He started to apologize, but Lidia was off again.

“We only found out because of that nice robot your building has! We called last week and didn’t get an answer, fine, but then another week passes, and no word! So we try again, and what do we find out? That Jimmy was in a coma and he has a broken spine! That seems like something you’d tell his friends, doesn’t it? _Tak?_ I thought you knew better!”

“I’m sorry, Lidia, I really am,” Steve begged. “I didn’t… I was so… I didn’t even think…”

“That’s right, you didn’t think!” Lidia snapped. “Where is he? Can we see him?”

“They’re doing scans right now,” Steve said miserably. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

Lidia huffed, but she softened slightly. “You’d best think good and hard about what you’ve done. No repeats, _rozumiesz_?”

“Enough, Lidia,” Esther said, her voice gentle. “He’s clearly had a hard time.”

Steve looked grateful, melting as Esther hugged him. Lidia gave him a glowering look, but wrapped her arms around him in turn and patted his back forgivingly.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled into her shoulder.

“I know you are,” she replied. She released him, waiting for Esther to finish hugging Peter so she could have her turn.

“Where can I put this devil cat? She’s much heavier that she looks,” Ollie puffed from behind the cat carrier, and Steve quickly took it, setting it on the counter. 

“We were going to go up and get some food,” Steve said. “The fridge is empty.”

“Is it? That’s no good. The two of you look like you need a meal,” said Esther. “When was the last time you ate? You seem thin, Peter, dear.”

Peter shrugged. “I don’t remember.”

“Well, let’s fix that. I’m sure there’s something suitable for consumption in this tower.”

“One would hope,” Ollie said. “I wouldn’t mind some food.”

“Not for you,” Lidia told him, clicking her tongue. “You ate before we left.”

“I was hoping you’d forgotten,” he said sheepishly.

“I might be old, but my memory’s still all here,” Lidia said. “Nice try, Oliver.”

Ollie sighed, moving to grab the cat carrier as everyone headed for the door. Steve beat him to it; Eleanor hissed as he scooped up the plastic crate. They trooped into the elevator, and Esther headed straight to the kitchen when they arrived on the common floor. She poked through the fridge, pulling out eggs and cheese and vegetables. Steve opened the door of Eleanor’s carrier, and she was out like a shot and under the couch in seconds.

“She’ll come out eventually,” Esther said, putting a pan on the burner and poking at the sleek stove. “How does this work?”

“It’s electric, Mrs. Berman,” JARVIS replied. “I’ve taken the liberty of turning it on medium-high.”

“Thank you, Mr. JARVIS. I don’t know what I’d do in this tower without you; everything’s so fancy and complicated.”

“My pleasure,” said JARVIS, sounding slightly chuffed. Esther started to crack eggs, then paused.

“Are you a Mr, JARVIS? I really shouldn’t assume things like that.”

“Technically, I believe I am agender, or genderless. However, most people refer to me using the pronouns he, him and his, which I find satisfactory. Thank you for asking, Mrs. Berman. It was very kind of you.”

“Well, it’s only right,” Esther said warmly. She poured the eggs into the pan, using the spatula to make sure they didn’t stick. “Steve, start chopping the tomatoes, would you, dear?” 

Steve dutifully took out a knife and a cutting board and began dicing the tomatoes into chunks. Peter sat with Ollie and Lidia on stools behind the counter, watching Esther turn a mess of eggs and vegetables into perfectly formed omelettes. Eleanor made a brief appearance when she darted from beneath the couch to one of the shelves under the TV. She narrowed her eyes searchingly, looking for Bucky, maybe. Peter’s chest twinged at the thought. Esther set a plate in front of him, and he inhaled the omelette before he could think about it. 

“I knew you were hungry,” she said, her eyes crinkling. “Would you like another?”

“Yes, please,” Peter answered. Esther plated an omelette for Steve before cracking more eggs and mincing some chives as they cooked. Ollie asked JARVIS progressively more difficult questions, hoping to stump him. JARVIS replied gamely, even pausing before answering once or twice to make Ollie think he’d won. Esther shoveled the third omelette onto Peter’s plate before beginning to make another for Steve.

“Sergeant Barnes’s scans have been completed,” JARVIS said, and Steve’s breath caught in his chest. “His vertebrae appear to be healing slowly. However, it is unclear if the damage to his nerves can be repaired by his body. If sensation fails to return to his legs within the next few weeks, the paralysis will likely be lifelong.”

Esther made a soft “oh.” Peter set down his fork, no longer hungry for the last few bites of his omelette. 

“Can we see him? Is he…” Steve trailed off, gripping the edge of the counter.

“He is still fairly heavily sedated,” said JARVIS. “You may go sit with him, but I would not expect him to be thinking coherently. When he is alert, the doctors will inform him of their findings.”

“Okay,” Steve said shakily. “Okay.”

Lidia put a comforting hand on his arm. Esther slid the last omelette onto his plate and when he showed no interest in eating it, she placed it in the fridge. Peter pushed his own plate towards Ollie, who gladly polished off the last several bites. Ollie grunted a little as he stood up, pressing a hand to his back before moving to set the plate in the sink. Esther fetched Eleanor from beneath the TV, shepherding her back into the carrier.

“Will the doctors mind if we take Eleanor to see Jimmy?” Esther asked. Peter shrugged, unsure.

“Generally speaking, animals are not allowed in the medical facilities. However, in this case, an exception can be made,” JARVIS provided.

“Thank you, Mr. JARVIS,” said Esther. “You’re such a dear.”

If JARVIS could blush, he probably would, Peter thought distantly as he followed Steve to the elevator. The descent was somber, and the only reason why Peter didn’t dart down the hall of the medbay was because the Olds wouldn’t be able to keep up. 

Bucky’s eyes were closed when they entered his room. Lidia put a hand to her heart; Ollie shook his head mournfully.

“Oh, Jimmy,” Esther said softly, and Bucky’s eyes fluttered.

“Es’er?” he mumbled, his speech heavily slurred. 

“We’re right here, dear,” Esther told him, and his eyes fell shut again. Steve set the Eleanor’s carrier on the edge of the bed and opened the little door. Eleanor poked her head out, hissed at the beeping machines, and quickly burrowed beneath the blankets by Bucky’s side. Lidia moved the now cat-less carrier to the floor, allowing Peter to take its place on the side of the bed. Esther and Lidia squished into the big chair and Ollie took the smaller one, leaving Steve to hover anxiously.

“How did it happen?” Ollie asked quietly, and Peter stiffened. Steve gave him a stern look, despite his preoccupation.

“It’s not your fault, Peter,” he said.

Peter shrunk as the Olds turned to look at him.

“We were heading back to the jet,” said Steve. “We’d swept the area, we thought it was clear. There… there was a bomb, it was well-hidden. Buck threw himself on top of Peter when it detonated, and…”

Peter clamped his mouth shut to hold back the noise that wanted to escape. He stood up and hurried for the door.

“Peter,” Lidia said, getting to her feet. Peter stopped with his fingers on the door handle. “Come here, _Piotrusiu_.”

Peter moved hesitantly over to Lidia, who held out her arms invitingly. Peter only hung back for a few moments before tilting forward into her embrace, sniffling as she rubbed circles between his shoulder blades. He pushed down his emotion after a minute, stepping back and avoiding eye contact. Esther took his elbow and moved him back to his seat on the bed; he didn’t fight her. They didn’t seem to blame him, he thought to himself. He’d expected them not to want to look at him.

They sat with Bucky for upwards of an hour before he began to wake up. He cracked an eye open and looked up at Steve, who was still floating fretfully by his side.

“I dreamed Esther was here,” he said, sounding hoarse. 

“That wasn’t a dream, dear,” Esther said lovingly, and Bucky tilted his head toward her voice. His face curled at the sight of her and Ollie and Lidia.

“We brought the little beast, too,” said Lidia, tugging back the blankets enough to reveal Eleanor’s ears. Bucky’s smile widened and he laboriously lifted his arm to run his fingers through her soft fur. He looked up at Peter, content.

“Could get used to this. Wakin’ up with all my favorite people.”

Ollie grinned. Steve seemed to be resolutely ignoring the dampness in the corners of his eyes. There was a faint knock on the door and a doctor poked her head in; she wasn’t wearing a white coat, which seemed to relieve Bucky.

“Good afternoon, Sergeant Barnes. Would you rather I come back to discuss your scans after your visitors leave, or would you like to get it over with?”

Bucky looked conflicted. “Get it over with,” he finally said. The doctor nodded, stepping fully into the room and taking a seat on a little swivel chair by the sink. Peter noticed her open, relaxed posture; she seemed to be consciously making herself less threatening, which softened the creases around Bucky’s eyes.

“Your vertebrae seem to healing well, which is good news,” the doctor said. “We aren’t so sure about the nerves. They don’t show up as well on the scans we can do. There seems to be a small modicum of improvement, but we don’t know how far that’ll extend. A normal person would never walk again. With you, I’d say there’s a chance. Certainly not a definite one, but a chance.”

Bucky nodded minutely, his face tight. Eleanor crept up to his chest, where she curled up and tucked her paws beneath her. She stretched her neck and touched her damp nose to his; he blinked slowly at her. After a few moments, a heavy breath fell out of him.

“A chance.”

The doctor gave him a tight smile, lips pressed together. Nobody spoke.

“Lived off chance so far. Let’s hope it holds up,” he finally said, and Steve let out something between a laugh and a sob. “Hey. Stevie. I’m here.”

“I know.” Steve’s voice was thick and wavering.

“I knew you were an optimist somewhere in there, Jimmy,” Esther said fiercely. He reached out arduously and took her wrinkled hand; she gave his a squeeze. The doctor stood up slowly, telegraphing her movements so as not to startle Bucky. He gave her a small nod, and she offered him a real smile before heading for the door.

“If you need anything or have any questions, you can ask JARVIS to let me know and I’ll be here as soon as I can,” she said.

“Thank you,” said Steve, and she closed the door behind herself with a snick. Bucky’s eyes drifted back to Peter, who was still perched on the edge of the bed, knees pulled to his chest. Bucky’s brow furrowed.

“JARVIS,” he said, his eyes flicking to he ceiling.

“Yes, Sergeant Barnes? How can I be of assistance?”

“What time is it?”

“Eleven forty-two in the morning,” JARVIS replied. Bucky’s frown deepened.

“Date?”

“Tuesday, March 13th, 2018.”

“You should be at school,” Bucky said to Peter, who winced.

“Yeah,” Peter mumbled, looking away. Bucky’s face shifted to concern.

“Why aren’t you in school.”

“I… I’d rather be here,” Peter said, gesturing to Bucky’s bedside. Bucky’s eyes softened.

“Go to school tomorrow. Steve missed a month of school when we were little and nearly failed his classes. Given, you’re smarter than he was, but you shouldn’t get behind.”

Steve looked a mix of mildly offended and approving. Ollie chortled a bit.

“Alright,” said Peter, somewhat reluctant. He paused, then, “Steve really almost failed his classes?”

Bucky inclined his head grimly. “Only scraped by ‘cause I made him write formulas and vocabulary instead of drawing all the damn time.”

Now Steve looked a little teary. “I didn’t think you remembered that, Buck.”

Bucky huffed. “I remember lots of things that make you look like a thickhead.”

“Do you want to tell us some of them?” Lidia asked hopefully.

“I guess I’m feelin’ generous,” Bucky mused and everyone laughed, getting comfortable for storytime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! Comments are appreciated.
> 
> Translations:  
>  _Tak?_ : Yes?  
>  _czy rozumiesz_ : Do you understand?  
> * _Piotrusiu_ : Double diminutive form of Piotr, which is Peter's name in Polish.  
> (I don't know much Polish at all, so please correct me if I'm wrong!)
> 
> *Thank you to Emily for helping me fix this one!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to school. Enter our lord and savior, MJ.

The next day, Peter heeded Bucky’s orders and got up to go to school. He stopped in the medbay before heading up to the common floor, lingering by Bucky’s bed and brushing a few residual cat hairs from Bucky’s metal arm. Steve wasn’t there, which meant that someone (probably Natasha) had convinced him to take care of himself and get some rest. Speaking of the devil, when Peter plodded into the common kitchen, she was already there, handing him a bowl of warm porridge and breakfast sausage.

“Eat quickly,” she said. “It’s better if we get there early, before the halls get crowded.”

Peter blinked at her, and she steered him to his seat at the table, nudging his hand to prompt him to eat. He complied, still looking at her with confusion.

“I’m walking you to school,” she elaborated, lifting an eyebrow. “Did you think Barnes would make you go alone?”

“I… I guess…”

“Eat,” Natasha said. “Did you leave your backpack in your room?”

Peter looked around. “Oh. Yeah, I forgot it.”

“I’ll go get it. Try to finish by the time I’m back.”

Peter began shoveling porridge into his mouth, taking brief pauses for bites of sausage as Natasha headed off to the elevator. He was almost finished by the time she returned; his backpack was slung over her shoulder. It made her look surprisingly young, Peter thought to himself. If he caught a glimpse of her at school, he wouldn’t look twice. He scarfed down the rest of his food and brought his plate to the sink before taking his backpack and following Natasha back to the elevator. 

“I hope you have an uneventful day at school, Mr. Parker,” JARVIS said kindly as the doors opened to the lobby.

“Thanks,” Peter replied. “I hope so too.”

He and Natasha strode across the tile floor and stepped out onto the sidewalk; it hit Peter suddenly that he hadn’t been outside in weeks. He hadn’t gone so long without patrolling since May had… He pushed the thought away, hurrying to keep up with Natasha. The sound of traffic was harsh on his ears after so long without it, and he lifted a hand to massage his temple, wincing as a taxi’s horn blared. Natasha took off the hat she was wearing and tugged it over his head. It muffled the noise slightly; he gave her a grateful look. She was so unwaveringly observant, he thought. He didn’t know how she did it.

The walk didn’t take long at their brisk pace, and Natasha crossed the road with Peter, following him up the concrete steps to the school. He scrunched up his brow when she walked inside with him; luckily the halls were nearly empty.

“Tony asked me to check with the secretary to make sure your absences are cleared,” she said in explanation. 

He nodded, trailing after her as she marched into the secretary’s office. The secretary looked up; her eyebrows did a little dance on her forehead when she saw him.

“It’s been a while, Mr. Parker. Do you have a note from your doctor or… something?”

“I do,” Natasha said smoothly, pulling out a folded piece of paper and handing it to the secretary. “Three broken ribs and a concussion, but he’s healed up now.”

The secretary made a sound that was somewhere between sympathy and annoyance.

“Is everything in order?” Natasha asked, and the woman nodded, clicking away at her computer.

“You’re all set. You’ll have plenty to catch up on, Peter.”

Natasha nodded, thanking the secretary and stepping out into the hall. She squeezed Peter’s shoulder briefly and stuck a tiny dot to his collar. A bug.

“Really?” Peter said.

“I promised Barnes,” Natasha replied. “I expect Clint will pick you up later. Call if you need anything.”

Peter nodded, and Natasha strode off towards the front doors. It was only when she was gone that he realized he was still wearing her hat. He took it off and put it in his bag, running his fingers through his hair to straighten it. 

“Peter?” someone called, and Peter turned to see Ned hurrying over. “Peter! It’s so good to see you, man! It’s been lonely without you. Are you okay? You weren’t replying to texts, so I called and someone told me you got hurt. I was so worried, dude! You look okay, though…”

“I’m alright,” Peter said, shrugging. “Is it cool if we don’t talk about it right now?”

“Yeah, man! No worries. I’m just happy to see you.”

Peter smiled a little. “Me too. I hope Flash hasn’t been bothering you.”

“Eh, only a bit. But this girl MJ- you know MJ, right? She totally told Flash to fuck off and said that he was a waste of living cells, and now we’ve been eating lunch together. She’s, like, secretly really nice! We should introduce her to Bucky, they can be spiky and soft together.”

Peter’s face fell, and Ned looked worried.

“Dude, I’m sorry, did I say something? I’ll shut up-”

“No, it’s just…” Peter looked around before speaking again. “Bucky… he got hurt really bad. He… he broke his spine, and they don’t know if he’s gonna… if he’s gonna be okay.”

“Oh my god,” Ned said, jaw dropping. “I’m so sorry, man. Do you, like… want a hug?”

Peter nodded miserably, and Ned squeezed him in a warm hug. Unfortunately, Flash and his gang decided to walk by right about then.

“Gay!” Flash crowed, and his oafs laughed. Ned released Peter, squaring up and looking legitimately angry, a rare expression for him.

“Hugging another guy doesn’t make you gay. There’s nothing even wrong with being gay, anyway. Fuck off, Flash.”

Before Flash could fire back, MJ strode over, gave Flash a scornful look, and kneed him in the balls. He fell over, howling, and MJ turned her back on him.

“You have a listening device on your shirt collar,” she said to Peter, raising an eyebrow. He stared at her for a few moments, dumbfounded, before replying.

“Yeah, I know it’s there.”

MJ shrugged. “Weirdo. Nice to have you back.”

She headed off down the hall, ignoring Flash writhing on the floor in pain. All of his minions had scattered; there were no teachers in sight, but Peter and Ned beat a hasty retreat just in case.

“She’s super cool, isn’t she?” Ned said admiringly. Peter nodded in strong agreement. The bell rang, and the two of them headed off to Spanish class, though not before turning back with grim satisfaction to look at Flash groaning on the ground.

\----

When the lunch bell rang, Peter made his way to the cafeteria and found Ned and MJ at a table near the back of the room. He bought lunch and made his way over to join them, sliding onto the bench beside Ned.

“Hey, loser,” MJ said in greeting.

“Hi,” Peter fumbled. MJ propped her chin up on her fist.

“So where were you?” she asked nonchalantly, taking a bite of her apple.

Peter looked down. “I got hurt.”

“Okay,” she said, and went back to what looked like math homework. Peter exchanged a glance with Ned, and Ned shrugged.

“Thanks for… earlier…” Peter said, and MJ’s mouth curled.

“Sure,” she said. “It was fun.”

Peter gazed at her as she worked her way through a derivation; she was really a mystery to him. He didn’t usually like people his own age, but he decided then and there that he wouldn’t mind being her friend.

\----

True to Natasha’s word earlier, Clint was waiting at the bottom of the steps when Peter made his way outside after school let out. He waved to Ned, and Ned’s face lit up.

“Hi!” Ned exclaimed.

“Hey, kiddo,” Clint replied cheerfully. “What’s up?”

“Not much! There’s gonna be a new Star Wars movie, did you hear?”

“You bet I did. Nat called me a nerd, but she’s secretly excited, I swear.”

Ned laughed. MJ sauntered over and gave Clint a calculating look.

“You’re Hawkeye,” she said. “We saw you on our field trip to the tower. You’re Peter’s friend.”

“I am,” said Clint. “Are you Peter’s friend?”

MJ looked at Peter, considering. “Sure.”

“Does that mean you’re my friend, too?” Ned asked, and he beamed when she gave an affirmative. “That means I have two friends! My parents are gonna be floored!”

MJ deemed this worthy of a smile before strolling off to catch the bus. 

“Look at you two go!” Clint said. “Making friends left and right. Good job, boys. Congratulations.”

“MJ’s our friend!” Ned squeaked, poking Peter. “She’s _so_ cool! Wait, does that mean we’re cool? Oh my god, we’re cool!”

“I don’t know if that’s how it works,” Peter said, but he was grinning. The buses started to leave and Ned had to dart off, leaving Peter and Clint to begin walking home.

“You had a good day, then? Nothing terrible?” Clint asked. Peter nodded.

“MJ kneed Flash in the balls for us. That was the opposite of terrible.”

“That sounds beautiful,” said Clint wistfully. “I wish I could’ve seen it.”

“There’s probably audio,” Peter said. “Natasha bugged me this morning. I don’t think that would do it justice, though.”

“I doubt it,” Clint agreed. “I’ll give it a listen anyway. Did he cry?”

“A little bit.”

\----

Bucky was awake when Peter slipped into his room. Though his mouth curled up at the corners, he didn’t greet Peter aloud, instead gesturing to Steve, who was asleep with his head resting on the edge of the bed. Bucky’s flesh hand was on the back of his neck and the blankets beneath Steve’s face were slightly damp, as if he’d cried not too long ago. Peter nodded in understanding, taking a seat in the chair on the other side of the bed and pulling out a thick packet of math he had to make up. He tilted himself so Bucky could see the page and began to scribble his way through trig problems.

It took him over an hour to get through the work; it wasn’t that the problems were difficult for him, just that there were so many of him. He shoved the papers back into his bag when he finished, rubbing his eyes and yawning. Steve seemed to still be out for the count, but Bucky was alert and watching Peter. He gestured with his metal hand to Peter’s backpack, probably asking if Peter had more work to do. Peter wrinkled his nose, but pulled out a book that he had to catch up on reading for English class. Bucky shifted his gaze to Steve, then back to Peter, though he didn’t meet Peter’s eyes.

“Can you read out loud,” he asked, his voice barely audible.

“Sure,” Peter said, and opened to the first page. To his relief, Steve didn’t wake when he began to read. “ _The night Effia Otcher was born into the musky heat of Fanteland, a fire raged through the woods just outside her father’s compound. It moved quickly, tearing a path for days. It lived off the air, it slept in caves and hid in trees; it burned, up and through, unconcerned with what wreckage it left behind…_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! Comments are appreciated.
> 
> The wonderful [Aprilmallick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aprilmallick/pseuds/Aprilmallick) wrote a [fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14094525) for this verse! It's lovely and precious and everyone should give it a read!
> 
> Just so everyone knows, Peter and MJ's relationship will be entirely platonic in this. My apologies to those who wanted a romantic relationship! I just can't write those.
> 
> The book quoted at the end of the chapter is Homegoing by Yaa Gyasi, for anyone who's interested. It follows the parallel paths of two half sisters who are born into different villages in Ghana in the eighteenth century, as well as their descendants.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What the Olds and JARVIS can't fix, Sam can.

It became a routine. Peter got up early and sat with Bucky for fifteen minutes or so before making his way upstairs to eat breakfast. Someone would be waiting for him, usually Natasha, Clint, or Hill but sometimes Pepper, Tony, or Bruce; rarely Steve. They’d walk him to school and he’d diligently sit through his classes, eating lunch with Ned and MJ. He never accepted their invitations to hang out; luckily, they seemed to understand. Instead, he hurried home and did his homework by Bucky’s side, chattering about his day, sometimes the previous night’s patrol. That was something he did again, after dinner but before his curfew. Bucky had made him swear to be careful, because, “I won’t be there to protect you if something goes wrong.” The earnest words had made Peter bite his lip in attempt not to cry.

Crying was something Peter did more often, now, though not as much as Steve. Probably because Steve was so terrible at hiding it. There was no missing when his massive shoulders shook. Bucky would take his hand, running his thumb over Steve’s knuckles, and Steve would sob about how stupid he was being because _Bucky_ was the one who was hurt, not him. Bucky always rolled his eyes and agreed that Steve was an idiot, but not for crying. For “apologizing so damn much, jesus fuck, shut it, Rogers.” At one point, Bucky got so fed up that he flicked Steve in the face with his metal hand, right between the eyes. It left a welt that took a solid two hours to fade. It seemed to get the point across, at least temporarily.

Finally, Bucky called Sam in; Sam took a week off of work and flew in from DC the next day, refusing to listen to Steve’s protests over the phone that he was fine and it wasn’t necessary.

“That’s bullshit if I ever heard it,” Sam had said. “Am I right, Barnes?”

“Confirm,” Bucky had grunted, and Steve let out a hiccuping laugh and buried his head in his hands.

 

\----

 

When Peter slipped out of Bucky’s room for the morning and took the elevator up to the common floor to eat breakfast, he really wasn’t expecting to see Sam. He knew Sam was at the tower, obviously; he just wasn’t expecting to see him in the shared kitchen making pancakes so early in the morning. Peter stood and stared for thirty seconds before Sam turned to the fridge and glimpsed him, jumping in surprise.

“Jesus! How long have you been standing there? How did you sneak up on me? Natasha does that too… is it a spider thing?”

Peter gave a short, unexpected laugh at that. “Maybe it’s a spider thing. Sorry I scared you.”

Sam waved a hand. “No worries. Do you want honey or syrup on your pancakes?”

When Peter didn’t answer, he turned to find Peter staring at him, brow wrinkled.

“Syrup or honey? _Jarabe o miel_? Uh… lemme try to think of it in French… _Sirop ou miel_? Oh hey, honey’s the same in Spanish and French. I didn’t even realize that until now. But seriously, honey or syrup?”

“You’re making me pancakes?” Peter said, bewildered.

“Well, I’m making some for me too. But yeah,” Sam replied, offering Peter a broad smile.

“Oh. Uh… Syrup, please, I guess?”

Sam nodded approvingly. “A man after my own heart.”

Peter watched as Sam scooped three pancakes from the skillet with a spatula and put them on a plate, which he slid in front of Peter along with a bottle of syrup.

“Thank you,” Peter said, drizzling maple syrup across his pancakes and taking a bite. “Mmm.”

“No problem. I’m glad you like ‘em.” Sam waited at the stove until the next batch of pancakes were done, then began eating them as he started another. “I’m guessing you’ll want seconds, if you have any kind of stomach like Steve’s.”

“Yes, please,” said Peter, ducking his head. His three pancakes were already gone. He watched as Sam cooked, whistling between hasty bites of pancake.

“Here you are,” Sam said, picking up the pan and walking over to shovel the fresh batch onto his plate. His thanks was muffled by steaming pancake, and Sam laughed. “You forgot your syrup on that one, man.”

Peter shrugged sheepishly before speaking. “How come you’re up so early? Isn’t this like vacation for you?”

“Yeah, it is, but I wanted to check in with you. Breakfast seemed like the best way to do it.”

“Check in with me?” Peter asked around a mouthful of pancake. Sam nodded.

“To make sure you’re doing okay. It’s been an eventful few weeks, huh? And not in a good way.”

“It hasn’t been that great,” Peter conceded, running his fingers through his hair. Sam turned off the stove and sat down.

“Want to tell me about it?”

Peter hesitated, but Sam’s eyes were warm without a hint of teasing.

“I… um… I _know_ this isn’t all my fault, like, technically, but… it really feels like it. I just… I feel really guilty about it. Because if I hadn’t… y’know, Bucky would be… okay.”

“Alright,” Sam said. “I understand that. It’s pretty normal, when things like this happen. You convince yourself that there must’ve been something you could’ve done, but there wasn’t, and you just have to work on accepting that. It helps to look at the big picture, sometimes. If you hadn’t been there, what do you think would’ve happened?”

“The bomb wouldn’t have gone off. Bucky wouldn’t be hurt.”

“How do you know?”

“Well…” Peter stopped, pursing his lips.

“Exactly. If you weren’t there, Barnes could’ve been there anyway. It could’ve been any of you. It could’ve been a civilian or three. Sometimes, taking yourself out of the equation doesn’t make things better. It could’ve even made things worse. You just have to try to rationalize it, you know?”

Peter stared at Sam for a few seconds before shaking himself. He felt like his mind had been cut up and reorganized for the better. “How do you… That’s really smart.”

Sam laughed. “It’s my job to be smart. You feelin’ a bit better?”

Peter nodded, rubbing his forehead. His brain already hurt and he hadn’t been to school yet. It must’ve showed on his face, because Sam gave him a sympathetic pat to the shoulder.

“It’s one of those things that gets easier with practice, unfortunately.”

Peter made a face and stuffed his mouth full of pancake. Sam laughed.

“Me too, kid.”

“I’d recommend finishing your food within the next two minutes,” JARVIS said, and Sam began wolfing down his pancakes with surprising speed. Peter stared, faintly amused by Sam’s bulging cheeks.

“Whath,” Sam said upon catching him. “Oo earn tho eat fatht in the Air Forth.”

Peter’s lips curled into a smile, and he scoffed down the rest of his pancakes before draining his orange juice and taking his dishes to the sink. Sam followed suit, heading after Peter into the elevator. Peter gave him a confused look.

“I’m walking you to school,” Sam said. “I signed up. Did you know they have a list and everything? I had to fight Hill for this spot.”

“Really?” Peter asked, surprised.

“Yeah, it’s a whole big spreadsheet. Pepper must’ve made it.”

“No, I knew they had a list. But… you… Hill… People _want_ to walk me to school?”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

That left Peter silent for the entire elevator ride. It was too early for all of this logic, he thought to himself. 

“I just didn’t think… aren’t I kind of annoying?” he asked as they made their way across the lobby. 

“Not really,” Sam replied. “You’re a pretty good kid. I’ll deny I ever said that until the world ends, though, so don’t quote me on it.”

A surprised laugh bubbled out of Peter as he and Sam stepped out onto the sidewalk. He straightened the collar of his short, which had blown up in the wind, and checked to make sure the bug that Bucky had stuck on him that morning was still there.

“Did Bucky really break in and bug your house?” he asked Sam, who groaned.

“That man better not be giving you ideas. He did, and when I told him later that I was gonna buy a better lock for my door, he said it would make him happy because it would improve my safety. Ridiculous, he is. He’s like…”

“A hedgehog?” Peter supplied. “Spiky on the outside and squishy on the inside. That’s what my friend Ned said.”

Sam laughed long and hard. “Oh my god, that’s beautiful. I’m gonna use that one. Tell your friend Ned he’s a genius.”

“I will. He’ll totally freak out.”

Sam was still snickering. “A hedgehog. It’s perfect.”

 

 

\----

 

 

“Guess who likes your description of Bucky as a hedgehog?” Peter asked Ned as they made their way through the crowded cafeteria.

“Who?” Ned said excitedly.

“Falcon,” said Peter, immediately wishing that he’d pulled out his phone and filmed Ned’s face.

“Really?” Ned squeaked. “Oh my god! You’re kidding, right?”

“No, he thought it was really funny.”

“This is the best day of my life,” Ned said, sliding into the seat next to MJ, who squinted at him.

“Did Star Wars come early or something?” she asked.

“No, better! Falcon thinks I’m funny!”

“Congratulations,” MJ said, lifting an eyebrow. “Sounds like a momentous occasion.”

“It totally is, you don’t even know,” Ned gushed. “Oh my god oh my god.”

Peter patted his shoulder. “You can meet him sometime, if you want. Maybe not today, but sometime this week.”

“Really?! AHhhhh my life is complete.”

“You’re such a fanboy,” MJ commented, and Ned nodded.

“I am.”

She smirked. “At least you own it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! Comments are appreciated.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of the last chapter. Studying, studying, and plans for Hair Club. *cackles*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any dialogue in languages other than English is hyperlinked; just hover your mouse above the text to see the translation! For those on mobile, translations are also in the end notes.

When Peter got home from school, he was surprised to find Steve missing from Bucky’s room. Bucky must’ve seen it on his face, because his lips twisted into a wry smile.

“Sam finally got Stevie to pull his head outta his ass and have a life like a normal person,” he told Peter. “They went out for coffee and a run.”

Peter nodded, dropping his backpack by the bed and sitting down.

“What’s first today,” Bucky asked, gesturing after the backpack. Peter groaned.

“History test tomorrow. I have to study. And also a Spanish quiz, and my art teacher gave _art homework_. Who does that?”

“Art teachers,” Bucky supplied, drawing a smile out of Peter. “C’mon. Let’s see it.”

Peter pulled out his notes from history class and Bucky plucked them from his hand.

“I’ll quiz you,” Bucky said, leaving no room for argument. He began skimming the pages; his brow furrowed deeply and he didn’t speak. Peter watched him read, drawing in each word that Peter had messily scrawled.

“Is it my handwriting?” Peter asked after a few minutes. Bucky shook his head slowly.

“I had no idea. That… Who the hell does this McCarthy asshole think he is.”

Peter covered his mouth, holding back a laugh.

“Good fucking god,” Bucky said, sounding vaguely appalled. “Why didn’t anyone stop him.”

“They didn’t want to be called communists.”

“Какого черта. I thought the Cold War was the only big thing in the fifties.”

“Nope,” Peter said faux-cheerfully. “The Red Scare happened too.”

“That makes it sound like the plague,” Bucky grumbled, looking down at the notes. “Alright. Where was Joseph McCarthy from.”

“Wisconsin?”

“Who was president at the time.”

“Uh… Hoover?”

Bucky shook his head. “Hoover was president when Steve n’ I were twelve or thirteen. Beginning of the Depression.”

“Right.” Peter pursed his lips. “Um… Coolidge? Truman?”

“Truman,” Bucky said. “Coolidge came before Hoover.”

Peter nodded.

“Was McCarthy a Democrat or Republican.”

“Republican.”

“And Truman.”

“Democrat?”

“Good. Who was Ed Murrow.”

“He was… I think he was one of the first people to expose McCarthy?”

“A news reporter,” Bucky said, shuffling through Peter’s notes. “What was his show called?”

\----

When Steve and Sam returned, they were respectively wielding a hot chocolate for Peter and a decaf white chocolate mocha with extra whip for Bucky, whose eyes fluttered blissfully at the taste.

“Thank you, flying Sam. Mission-assist number one.”

“I take offense to that,” JARVIS said with a mild tone.

“Fight me,” said Sam, squinting at the ceiling. Peter snickered, taking a long sip of hot chocolate. It was pleasantly warm; Steve and Sam must’ve timed the coffee run perfectly with how quickly the drinks would cool. Bucky tilted his head, considering.

“Actually, Esther is mission-assist number one.”

“You wound me so, Sergeant Barnes,” JARVIS intoned mournfully at the same time that Sam let out an indignant squawk.

“At least tell me I’m mission-assist number two.”

“Number two is building JARVIS,” Bucky said, and Sam pouted.

“Number three?” he begged.

“Fine,” Bucky said, and he pumped his fist.

“Where am I on this list?” Steve asked.

“You’re the mission,” Bucky told him, his voice slow and emphasized as if he was telling a child something obvious. Steve’s cheeks went slightly pink.

“Oh. Right. Where’s Peter?”

“Sub-mission one,” Bucky said, taking another swig of mocha. “And he needs to study. Go away.”

“I just studied for an hour and a half!”

“You studied history for an hour and a half. You also have a Spanish quiz. And art homework”

“Nooooo,” Peter said plaintively. “I never should’ve told you that.”

“Oh, pain and suffering,” Bucky said dryly. Sam laughed, tugging Steve out the door.

“Have fun studying! _Buena suerte!_ ”

“ _Gracias_ ,” Peter said woefully.

\----

When Peter finally closed his notebook, it felt like Spanish verbs had been burned into the backs of his eyes. He let his head fall against the side of the bed with a thunk, and Bucky reached out and patted his shoulder.

“Good job.”

“If I don’t ace the test, I’m gonna be so mad,” Peter said, muffled by bedsheets.

“You’ll do well,” Bucky told him.

“Bleargh.”

“You might not thank me, but your grades will.”

That drew a laugh out of Peter. “My happiness and my grades have an inverse relationship.”

Bucky’s near-teasing expression tightened. “If I’m being too-”

“No, no, I’m just kidding,” Peter assured him. “It’s not that bad when you help me.”

Bucky exhaled, his face smoothing out into something more pensive. He looked like he wanted to say something, but was stuck juggling the words in his mind. For better or for worse, JARVIS butted in, sounding apologetic.

“Dinner is ready, Mr. Parker.”

Peter got to his feet reluctantly and scooped up his bag.

“I’ll be back later,” he said, and Bucky frowned a little.

“You don’t hafta spend all your time in here.”

“I want to,” said Peter. Bucky’s face softened, hinting at a smile. 

“Go eat,” he said, waving Peter out the door. Peter obediently slunk into the hall, making his way to the elevator. The smell of barbecue filled his nose when the doors opened to the shared floor, and he made his way to the table, where most people were already sitting.

“How did the studying go?” Sam asked, serving himself some cornbread and passing the tray to Clint.

“My brain feels like mush,” Peter replied, and Sam grinned broadly.

“That’s how you know it’s working.”

“What are you studying for?” Pepper asked. “Did you already take the math test you were studying for a few days ago?”

Peter nodded. “I took it this morning. I think it went well. I have a history test and a Spanish quiz tomorrow.”

Pepper clucked her tongue. “I don’t like how many tests they give these days. It’s just added stress.”

“Kids should have time to be kids,” Sam agreed.

“That would be nice,” Peter said somewhat wistfully, and everyone exchanged looks.

“You could always-”

“No,” Peter interrupted Natasha, looking apologetic. “I’m not giving up patrol. I like things fine the way they are.”

Natasha didn’t look convinced, but didn’t push. Hill took Peter’s plate and served him some ham and potatoes; he thanked her and she ruffled his hair, which was back to peak softness.

“We’re planning a Hair Club meeting for Thursday afternoon,” she told him. “Are you doing anything?”

Peter shook his head; she looked satisfied.

“Good. Don’t tell Barnes, but we want to give him highlights.”

“What does that mean?” Steve asked, looking worried.

“Nothing to worry about,” Natasha said cheerfully. “It’ll look great.”

“Will it, though?” said Tony. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m excited to laugh at him, but I don’t think blond goes with his whole color scheme.”

Natasha gave him a flat look.

“I think that was the point,” Sam said. Tony nodded.

“That’s fair.”

“Does Barnes get any say in the matter?” Bruce asked mildly. Steve looked even more concerned.

“Of course he does,” Pepper said. Clint took a bite of chicken and started to speak, but stopped and swallowed first under Pepper’s withering gaze.

“Good luck,” he declared. “And please call me if you succeed.”

“I’ll take pictures,” Natasha assured him. Steve really didn’t look assuaged. Hill patted his arm, giving his muscles a self-indulgent squeeze.

“Don’t worry. It’ll be consensual,” Hill said. Steve looked the most perturbed yet.

“What are you _doing_ to him? What are highlights? JARVIS, help me out here. I trust your judgement.”

“I’m honored, Captain. To answer your question, highlighting in this context refers to changing a person’s hair color by lightening some of the topmost strands. Highlighting can make hair appear fuller. It would not do serious harm to Sergeant Barnes in any way.”

“ _Serious_ harm? What about other kinds of harm?”

“Bleaching causes damage to hair, but this can be minimized by using certain products containing ceramides or other similar agents.”

“Is that bad? Should we be worried about it?”

“No, it’s just fine,” said Pepper, reaching over to touch his shoulder. “People bleach their hair all the time. There’s nothing to be concerned about, I promise. You think we’d do something to Barnes that would hurt him?”

Steve shook his head immediately, looking sheepish. “Sorry.”

Pepper smiled. “No worries.”

With the end of Steve’s worrying, Peter looked over to Hill, who was squinting at him studiously.

“How do you think Peter would look with blue hair?” she asked Natasha.

“What shade?”

“Dark blue. Or maybe turquoise, if we just did the top and left the sides.”

“Maybe,” Natasha said, considering.

“Woah, woah,” said Tony. “Leave baby Petey’s hair alone.”

“He’s almost seventeen,” Clint interjected, and Tony gasped dramatically.

“They grow up so fast!”

Peter turned his usual shade of pink.

“Blue would look adorable with that blush,” Hill said, and Natasha nodded in agreement. 

“Very kawaii.”

Tony choked on a bite of potato. “Sorry, did I hear that right? Did you seriously just say kawaii?”

“I’m always serious,” Natasha said, deadpan. Sam seemed to be trying hard not to laugh; Clint was far past that, shaking silently in mirth.

“I think I’m dreaming. This entire day has just been a long, overly realistic dream. If I go to bed, do you think I’ll wake up for real?” Tony set down his fork, eyes widening. “I took a shit earlier. If I took a shit in my dream, did I actually take a shit in my bed? Am I laying in my shit right now? Maybe I don’t want to wake up. I’m gonna go make myself a coffee.”

Pepper snagged Tony’s wrist, pulling him back into his chair. “No coffees after seven. You never sleep otherwise.”

“Sleep is for the weak,” Tony muttered, and took a bite of cornbread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments are appreciated.
> 
> Какого черта- What the hell.  
>  _Buena suerte!_ \- Good luck!  
>  _Gracias_ \- Thank you.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Makeover time! We shall receive the blue-haired Peter we all deserve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any dialogue in languages other than English have hyperlinks! Just hover to see the translation; for those on mobile, translations are in the end notes, as well.

“Should we invite Sam to Hair Club today?” Hill asked from Peter’s left side as they stepped out onto the sidewalk toward Peter’s school. Natasha, on his right, raised an eyebrow.

“He doesn’t have much hair,” she said.

“I don’t have much hair,” Peter pointed out.

“He has a _buzz cut_.”

“I know, but he meets the emotional criteria. It’s not like there’s a protocol for guests, anyway,” said Hill.

“Don’t let Clint hear you say that,” Natasha warned. “He’s been wanting to come for months.”

“Why don’t we let him?” Peter asked.

“We just don’t. We’re mean,” said Hill. Natasha nodded with a fond expression. Hill said something, but she was drowned out by taxi swerving and honking loudly at a sleek sports car. Peter winced at the noise.

“Идиоты,” Natasha muttered.

“What’s your first class?” Hill asked, repeating herself. 

“Um… History,” Peter replied. 

Hill made an interested sound. “What are you learning about?”

“We just had our test on the Red Scare, so now we’re starting a new unit on the Civil Rights Movement.”

“Do you like history?”

“It’s kind of cool. I like my teacher,” said Peter.

“That’s good. I hated my history teachers in high school.”

“You switched into another chemistry class, didn’t you?” Natasha asked. “Is the new teacher better?”

“Yeah, she’s really nice. I think it’s my favorite class now.”

Natasha looked pleased. 

“What is she teaching you?” Hill prompted.

“We’re learning about the ideal gas law. It’s a lot of calculations right now, but we’re doing a lab where we collect carbon dioxide gas tomorrow.”

“Interesting stuff. Have you done stoichiometry yet?” asked Hill. Peter nodded.

“That was a couple units ago. I liked it.”

“Good.” 

Natasha grabbed the handle on Peter’s backpack before he could cross the road.

“Look first,” she chastised.

“I did! Well, I listened. Nothing’s coming.”

Natasha gave him a squinty-look, and he ducked his head.

“Sorry. I’ll look next time.”

“You bet you will,” she said, flicking his ear lightly. They reached the other side of the crosswalk and came to a stop by the concrete steps in front of Peter’s school. Natasha gave Peter’s shoulder a squeeze and Hill ruffled his hair in goodbye. Ned hurried down the sidewalk with a grin, halting by Peter’s side.

“Hi, Miss Natasha! Hi, Miss Hill!” he said cheerily.

“Good morning, Ned,” Hill replied. “How are you?”

“I’m good! How are you?”

“I’m doing well.” 

MJ strolled over and Hill gave her a pleasant smile; Natasha’ gaze was more assessing.

“Hi, losers,” MJ said to the boys with an aloof fondness. 

“Hi!” Ned said, beaming at her. “This is our friend MJ.”

“Nice to meet you,” Hill said. 

“You too,” said MJ, sounding genuine. She looked Natasha up and down. “I aspire to be as badass as you are.”

Natasha gave a startled half-laugh before immediately smoothing herself over. “You don’t seem too far off.”

MJ grinned. “Thanks. I’m testing for my black belt in karate next week.”

Natasha’s face brightened with interest. “What style?”

Ned nudged Peter. “Is it just me, or was it a bad idea to introduce them?”

“Definitely a bad idea,” Peter agreed. 

MJ’s expression was both proud and scheming; it was eerily similar to one that Natasha frequented. The two were now talking animatedly, with Hill butting in to argue that taekwondo was better. MJ disagreed; Natasha liked both karate and taekwondo, but her favorite martial art was _sambo_. Ned and Peter inched away, heading inside before the bell rang and the halls got packed. They parted ways in front of Ned’s English class; Peter was pleased that Flash was nowhere in sight. Nothing like a “Penis!”-less start to his day, he thought to himself as he trudged off towards his history classroom.

 

\----

 

After school, Peter waved goodbye to Ned and stood on the sidewalk, waiting for whoever had signed up to walk him home from school. Maybe it was Steve, he thought to himself with a faint sense of dread. Steve always attracted attention on the streets, and was too nice to deny people a selfie, making him late more often than not. What he _wasn’t_ expecting was for MJ to sidle up next to him, hook her arm around his, and start to drag him off with surprising strength.

“ _Um_ ,” he said eloquently, for lack of real words. MJ smirked at him.

“I’m walking you home. It’s my job.”

“What?”

“Your hearing is exceptionally excellent; you heard me fine.”

Peter made an undignified sound of alarm, cheeks extremely pink. “How… what… ?”

“I’m more observant that you think,” she said, lifting an eyebrow in a scarily Natasha-like manner.

Peter let out a faint “eep” and resigned himself to be tugged down the sidewalk. After about a block, he chanced a real look at her.

“So… um… you _know_?” 

MJ glanced at him innocuously. “About what?”

“You know! I mean, do you really?”

MJ rolled her eyes. “ _Boys_. Yeah, Peter, it’s kind of obvious.”

“ _What?_ ”

“To me,” she added, and he breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Did Ned tell you?”

“No. I just said it was obvious.”

Peter gave a weak laugh. “You make no sense.”

“Thanks,” MJ said. “So. Hair Club.”

Peter looked at her, bewildered and honestly a bit intimidated. “How do you know about Hair Club?”

“Your friends invited me.”

“Oh. I… I guess that makes sense. Hair Club is Natasha, Hill, Pepper, Bucky, and me. I think Sam’s coming too, today, though.”

“Hm. Why are you in Hair Club?”

“I have soft hair, and apparently, the required emotional capacity?”

“Shocker.”

“Hey!” Peter protested, and MJ’s lips twitched. She reached up to feel Peter’s hair.

“Pretty soft,” she concluded. 

They slipped through the front doors of the tower into the lobby, and Peter led MJ to the elevators. The one on the left was Peter’s favorite; Clint had told him it was the best one and he hadn’t really questioned it. It didn’t seem to be any nicer or go any faster, but now Peter was biased. MJ looked amused as he explained this; he realized that he was probably boring her.

“Sorry,” he said, ducking his head. “That was stupid.”

“It’s endearing,” MJ told him, and messed up his hair. 

The elevator doors opened to the common room, where people were gathered around the TV, snacking and watching House Hunters. Natasha waved from the couch; MJ waved back. Clint popped his head above the cushions.

“Hey, Petey! Guys, look, he brought a friend! MJ, right?”

“This is MJ,” Peter confirmed, cheeks rosing slightly.

Bruce ambled out of the kitchen, taking a seat on the couch beside Natasha and giving MJ a friendly nod. MJ narrowed her eyes.

“You’re Dr. Banner?”

“Yes,” Bruce said slowly, with slight apprehension.

“I like your work,” said MJ. 

Bruce’s eyes widened. “Um. Thanks. You’ve… You’ve read my papers?”

“Some of them,” MJ replied, a bit defensive.

“Wow! I’m not saying… it’s just… you’re pretty young, aren’t you?”

MJ shrugged. “Peter’s read your papers.”

“I guess… Yeah.” Bruce scratched the back of his neck, sinking deeper into the couch, or maybe the figurative hole he was digging himself into. Clint snickered. The TV went to commercial break, and Hill checked the time on her watch.

“Time for Hair Club,” she announced, getting to her feet. “Nat, is Sam meeting us down there?”

Natasha nodded. “He’s already there.”

Clint, predictably, raised hell at the fact that he wasn’t invited.

“Betrayal!” he cried. “Injustice! Sam barely has hair! This is bullshit!” 

To further express his displeasure, he took off his right sock and threw it across the room. It landed peacefully in the trash can. 

“Aw, sock, no,” he groaned. “Now I won’t have enough for the week.”

“You don’t have extra socks?” Hill asked as she headed for the elevator.

“No! I keep losing them, so I only have five pairs. Well, now, four and a half.”

“Clint, that’s not even enough socks for one week,” said Natasha.

“It is if you reuse them.”

“That’s disgusting,” Hill said. “I’m leaving.”

Natasha got up and followed, waving for Peter and MJ to come along.

“Fuck you guys,” Clint called, though there wasn’t much heat to his voice. “I’m making my own club. Bruce, d’you want to be part of Foot Club?”

The last thing Peter saw before the elevator doors closed was Bruce scooting away from Clint, looking apprehensive.

“Where are we going?” MJ asked as the elevator descended.

“The medbay,” Natasha said. “Barnes is stuck down there, so we’re bringing Hair Club to him.”

“It’ll be a bit crowded, but we’ll make do,” said Hill. “Barnes will love you.”

The doors slid open, and Peter led the way to Bucky’s room. Sam and Steve were already inside; Bucky was awake, looking at pictures of something on Sam’s phone with a melty expression on his face.

“... she adorable? My sister rescued her from a shelter. She was a hellion as a puppy, but now that she’s older, she’s mellowed out a bit,” Sam was saying. He looked up when he saw Peter in the door. “Time for Hair Club already? Sorry, Barnes, I’ll show you more pictures later.”

Natasha, Hill, and MJ filed in after Peter; Natasha ousted Steve from his chair and waved him toward the door. Steve made a puppy-face, but reluctantly relented and headed out into the hall.

“Have fun, Buck!” he called over his shoulder. Bucky smiled a little before his eyes came to rest apprehensively on MJ.

“This is MJ,” Hill said. “Peter’s friend from school. MJ, this is Barnes.”

Bucky studied MJ carefully, scanning her up and down and squinting at her face. “Bucky,” he finally said.

“Nice to meet you,” MJ said. “Peter talks about you all the time. He thinks you’re awesome.”

That must’ve been the right thing to say because Bucky blinked, then loosened. The door squeaked open and Pepper bustled in, a large bag slung over her shoulder.

“Sorry I’m late! My meeting ran long. I brought supplies!” She paused to kiss Peter’s forehead. “How was your day, sweetheart?”

“Good,” Peter said. “Mom, this is my friend MJ.”

Pepper smiled widely. “MJ, nice to meet you. I’m Pepper.”

MJ held out her hand, but Pepper gave her a quick hug; MJ looked a mix of surprised and pleased. Peter perched himself on the side of Bucky’s bed while Natasha occupied the foot. MJ took the empty chair beside Sam, who introduced himself cheerfully. Pepper squeezed into the bigger chair beside Hill, who tossed an arm over her shoulders and peered into the bag.

“Oh, good. You brought it,” Hill said, pulling out a box of bleach, which Bucky eyed apprehensively.

“What’s that.”

“How do you feel about highlights?” asked Hill. 

Bucky levered himself into a more upright position, propping himself up on pillows. “Whats.”

“Highlights,” Natasha said. “It’s basically lightening some of your hair to make it look fuller.”

Bucky squinted at her. “With bleach.”

“It’s very common,” Pepper said. “I have highlights. Nat had some last year. I’m pretty sure Thor has highlights, though they’re probably natural, damn him.”

Sam laughed. “Why isn’t Thor part of Hair Club?”

“He lacks volume control,” Natasha said. “He’s not around much, either.”

“Fair enough.”

“What do you say, Barnes? Highlights?” asked Pepper.

Bucky pursed his lips, considering. “How does it work.”

“Well, we put a cap on your head that has holes in it, and we pull out the strands we want highlighted. We mix the highlighting solution and coat the strands, and depending on how light you want the highlights, we wait for fifteen to twenty-five minutes before rinsing it out.”

“No head guard.”

“Oh, no, Barnes. Not that kind of cap,” Pepper said gently. “It’s just made of plastic or latex. See?”

She pulled out the cap from the highlight kit, handing it to him. He examined it carefully before giving a little nod.

“Okay.”

“Confirm,” Natasha said, and he glared halfheartedly at her. 

“Did you bring the blue dye?” Hill asked Pepper.

“Are you going to make me blue,” said Bucky, looking alarmed. Hill laughed.

“No, it’s for Peter. He’d look precious with blue hair, don’t you think?”

“He’ll look like a cute smurf,” MJ said. “What shade did you get?”

“Ocean blue,” Pepper replied, holding the box up to Peter’s hair. “I think it’ll suit him.”

Natasha nodded. “Good choice. I’ll get towels.”

She stood up and slipped out the door; Peter watched her go with slight trepidation. 

“Why do we need towels?”

“Hair dye stains clothes,” Hill said. “Things usually get a bit messy. Do you like that shirt?”

Peter glanced down. “Uh… yeah?”

“Off with it, then.”

Peter tugged off his shirt and gratefully accepted the ratty tee that Natasha returned with alongside old towels.

“Pass the vaseline?” said Hill, and Pepper pulled a tub out of the bag and handed it to her. “Thanks.”

She began smearing it around Peter’s hairline, and he jumped at the cold, slimy feeling.

“What’s that for?” he asked; MJ snorted a little at the nervous crack in his voice.

“It’s so we don’t dye your skin,” she said. “Just relax.”

Sam laughed at Peter’s long-suffering look. “I don’t envy you right now, man.”

“When did I even agree to this?”

“You didn’t _not_ agree to this,” MJ pointed out. “But, I mean, if you really don’t want to…”

“It’s fine,” Peter sighed, and MJ looked pleased. She and Hill began working on the bleach mixture; Pepper and Natasha were doing the same with the solution for Bucky’s highlights.

Peter squeaked when the bleach first touched his hair. MJ smirked at him, twisting a strand on top into a unicorn horn. Sam pulled out his phone and snapped a picture; Peter pouted at him and turned to Bucky, who had the cap over his head with strands poking out. Natasha and Pepper were mixing the highlight solution; Bucky still looked faintly suspicious. Natasha looked up and smiled impishly at Peter.

“Having fun, little spider?”

“Wait, does that make you big spider?” Sam asked her, grinning. She swatted at him playfully, and he ducked to avoid the slimy solution on her gloved hands.

“We need a plastic bag,” MJ announced; Pepper dug one up and passed it over. “Thanks. Hold still, Peter.”

MJ reached up and tugged the bag over the top of Peter’s head, securing it over his bleach-covered hair.

“Is this for real?” he asked. “Do people really do this when they dye hair, or are you just trying to make me look ridiculous?”

“Maybe a bit of both,” Hill replied, seemingly satisfied with their work.

“What now?” Peter asked.

“Now we wait,” said MJ. She pulled out her phone and began taking pictures; Peter covered his face, chagrined. He watched from between his fingers as she began typing something.

“Wait, no, don’t send those to anyone!” he yelped. She grinned.

“Too late. It’s just Ned, don’t worry.”

“People are going to see you hair tomorrow, anyway,” Hill added.

“Help,” Peter sighed, looking at Bucky despondently. Bucky’s lips twitched a little.

“JARVIS.”

“Yes, Sergeant Barnes?”

“Can you take a picture and send it to Stark.”

“I can,” JARVIS said. “Mr. Parker, would you mind looking up? Say ‘cheese’.”

“Suffering,” Peter said, and everyone cracked up. “Wait, how long do I have to sit like this?”

\----

Less than two hours later, Peter’s hair was a rich shade of blue and Bucky had light brown highlights that worked surprisingly well for him. During the waiting period, MJ’s nails had been painted seafoam green, Natasha’s blood red, and Sam’s different colors of the rainbow. Pepper had an elaborate braid that spanned the back of her head, and Hill’s hair was bouncing around her shoulders loosely.

There was a knock on the door, and everyone quieted.

“Are you done?” Steve called.

“Why?” Pepper replied worriedly, pulling the door open. “Did something happen?”

“No,” Steve said, looking guilty. “I’m just bored.”

“Oh, heaven forbid,” said Natasha, rolling her eyes. “Fine, come in. But this is going to cost you.”

Steve’s face turned faintly worried, but he stepped inside and sat at the foot of the bed. He glanced over to Peter and his eyes widened at the rich blue hair.

“Wow.”

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Hill said proudly. “He’s precious.”

“I hope you like it,” Natasha added. “You’re next.”

It took a moment for Steve to process this. “... Wait, what?”

“You’re next,” Natasha repeated. “I think we have… Here we go! Pink dye.”

Steve choked on nothing. “Are you serious?”

“Deadly,” Natasha said with a particularly frightening smile. Sam looked amused.

“Thank god I don’t have enough hair to dye.”

“Never say never,” said MJ sagely. “I know a girl with a buzz cut who dyes her hair. Don’t think you’re so safe yet.”

“I’ll pass,” Sam said quickly. “You already painted my nails.”

MJ clucked her tongue. “Men and their fragile masculinity.”

“Hey!” Sam protested. “My masculinity isn’t fragile! I just can’t dye my hair because it would look unprofessional at work. They have rules.”

“Good thing Steve doesn’t!” Hill said brightly. 

“Are you being serious? I really can’t tell,” said Steve. Natasha grinned.

“No. We don’t have any more dye, I was kidding. You face was hilarious.”

Steve pouted.

“You wouldn’t look too bad with pink hair,” Bucky said thoughtfully. “Maybe you oughta give it a try sometime, Stevie.”

“Really?” Steve asked, cheeks pinkening.

“Gross, Steve, get out of here,” Hill groaned. “God, you’re like a teenager.”

Steve turned redder.

“Pretty fitting, in the present company,” Sam mused. MJ wrinkled her nose.

“I don’t blush like an idiot.”

“Peter does,” Pepper said. Peter buried his face in his hands.

“Mooooom.”

Pepper laughed. “I think our meeting’s over. I’d say it was a success.”

Bucky picked up a handheld mirror from where it was resting on his knee and examined his highlights again; he nodded.

“Volume of hair appears increased. Very aesthetically pleasing.”

“That was fun,” MJ said. “I should probably get home for dinner.”

“You’re welcome to stay if you’d like,” Pepper offered, but MJ shook her head.

“My parents want me home. Thanks for having me.”

“Oh, it was our pleasure,” Pepper assured her. “Make sure Peter brings you back sometime.”

MJ smiled. She stood up to leave, and Natasha waved Peter to his feet as well.

“Walk your guest to the lobby,” she told him. He followed MJ to the door.

“Wait,” Bucky said. “I. Need to ask you… a question.”

“Me?” MJ asked, confused. He nodded, but hesitated a bit before speaking.

“You go to school with Peter.”

MJ inclined her head in confirmation.

“Can you look out for him,” Bucky asked; he looked like he was trying to keep his face unreadable, but a hint of sadness slipped through.

“Sure,” MJ said, sounding slightly surprised. “No problem.”

“Keep him safe,” said Bucky, a bit imploring. MJ must’ve caught something desperate in his eyes, because she nodded firmly.

“I will.”

The lines on Bucky’s face softened. “Thank you.”

MJ gave him a genuine smile before slipping out the door. Peter followed, quick to escape the weighted silence that had filled the room. His heart twisted a little bit as they made their way down the hall to the elevator.

“He cares a lot about you,” MJ remarked.

“I know,” Peter said thickly. He looked at his feet as the elevator descended, avoiding her gaze. It was completely unexpected when he felt a gentle pair of arms wrap around him and pat his back carefully before letting go. He didn’t look up, afraid to ruin it.

“It’ll be okay,” she told him firmly. The elevator door opened, and she brushed a hand over his shoulder. “See you tomorrow. Hey, Peter.”

Peter finally lifted his head.

“Your hair looks great.”

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! Comments are appreciated!
> 
> All art is mine! This week, I get to use an iPad Pro to do some digital art, which is super exciting for me! I'll try to do as many illustrations for this fic as I can! However, I also happen to be having surgery this week, so I might not get to as much as I want. Hopefully I won't be too woozy on pain meds to write and draw! 
> 
> Идиоты- Idiots  
>  _[Sambo](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sambo_%28martial_art%29)_ is a Russian martial art and combat sport. ([Example](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jaJ0j57MDNc))
> 
> The dynamic trio:  
> 
> 
> Bonus Steve:  
> 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Are things as okay as they seem? Do things even seem okay?

Natasha and Sam were already in the kitchen when Peter got up for school the next morning; he wasn’t surprised to see them but he _was_ surprised that they didn’t notice him. They were talking quietly but quickly, and the glimpse that Peter had caught of Natasha’s face before ducking back behind the corner looked unnaturally worried. He trained his ear on their voices and managed to make out what they were saying.

“... fine on the outside, but it’s killing him, being stuck in bed. I would hate it, and he’s even more…” Natasha was drowned out by the clatter of a fork.

“... not much we can do,” Sam replied. “Just keep him hopeful, bring life to him so he doesn’t feel so much like he’s missing out.”

“I just don’t see this panning out well, and I feel like there’s nothing I can do about it. I _hate_ feeling helpless, Sam. I _hate_ it,” Natasha said fiercely.

“I know.” Sam’s voice was low, barely audible. “Just keep going to see him. It helps him, I promise. I know Rhodey is coming in a few days after I’m back in DC. I don’t know if it’ll help, but I don’t think it would hurt. It’ll show him that people can still function, even with paralysis. I’m not saying it won’t be tough; I’m worried too. We just need to support him the best we can.”

Natasha sighed. “Thanks, Sam. Peter, you can come out now.”

Peter jumped, then guiltily slid out of his hiding place and slunk into the kitchen, eyes down. He should’ve known better than to think that Natasha didn’t know he was there.

“How much of that did you hear?” Sam asked, a hint of scolding in his voice.

“Just the last bit,” Natasha answered in Peter’s turn. “If you’re going to eavesdrop, do it right next time.”

“Sorry,” Peter murmured, red-cheeked. Sam offered him a small, forgiving smile. Natasha exhaled tiredly but squeezed him around the shoulders.

“Eat your breakfast,” she said. “You only have seven minutes before you have to leave for school.”

Peter scurried off to make himself a bowl of cereal, thinking over the conversation he’d overheard. Natasha was worried. Earlier, she’d said she thought Bucky would recover. Had she been lying? Had she changed her mind? Peter shuddered. At least Sam was optimistic, however cautiously. 

“Is there coffee?” someone asked, zombie-like, and Peter turned to find Clint ambling sleepily through the doorway.

“Yeah, it’s on the counter,” Sam said, waving his hand.

“Thank fuck. I didn’t sleep last night. Oh hey, morning Petey-Pie.”

“Morning,” Peter replied, moving over so Clint could grab the coffee pot. He moved to get Clint a mug, but Clint started gulping right out of the pot, earning a swat over the head form Natasha.

“Ow!” Clint yelped, sloshing coffee on his shirt.

“Serves you right,” Natasha reprimanded. “Don’t drink from the pot.”

“I’m almost done,” Clint wheedled, inhaling the rest of the coffee and ducking away from Natasha’s palm. He set the pot in the sink, reaching up for a granola bar from the cabinets over the counter. He followed Peter to the table and took a seat.

“Happy that it’s Friday?” he asked and Peter nodded, his mouth full of cereal. “Any tests?”

“No,” Peter said after swallowing. “I’m starting new units in most of my classes.”

“Any interesting ones?”

Peter tilted his head, taking a quick bite of cereal before he answered. “We’re starting a poetry unit in English class.”

“Really?” Clint looked delighted. “I love poetry! 

That threw Peter for a loop. “You do?”

“Yeah! I didn’t read much at your age, but it grew on me as I got older. Good stuff. Come tell me about what they’re teaching you later.”

Peter nodded, agreeing, still a bit flummoxed. He didn’t think Clint would be the poetry type, but life was full of surprises. He glanced at the clock, winced, and began shoveling cereal down as fast as he could. Clint finished his granola bar and crumpled up the wrapper, pitching it neatly into the trash can.

“I can take Peter to school,” he offered, looking to Sam and Natasha.

“We’ve got it,” Sam said. “But you’re welcome to come along if you’d like.”

“Sure. Almost done, Petey-Pie? You have your homework and your lunch money?”

Peter lifted his bowl to his mouth and gulped down the remaining milk and chunks of cereal, nodding as he moved to set his bowl in the sink.

“Well, they don’t really do lunch money anymore,” he revised, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “It’s digital. You pay by typing in your lunch pin.”

“Fancy shmancy,” Clint said. “Don’t tell me your homework is digital, too.”

“Some of it,” Peter replied, smiling a little. Clint threw his hands up jokingly, following everyone to the elevator. 

“Have a good day at school, Peter!” the receptionist, Tina, called in the lobby. Peter waved to her as they headed for the doors, stepping out onto the sidewalk. 

Sam made a “brr” sound and lifted his shoulders to his ears. “DC is so much warmer.”

“Hey, New York is great,” Peter protested. Natasha shrugged unhelpfully, and Clint looked apologetic. 

“He’s sort of right. The weather is crap up here.”

“It’s nice sometimes! Didn’t you grow up here?”

Clint shook his head, lips curling. “I grew up in Iowa. Well, sort of.”

Peter stared at him. “Really?”

Clint looked faintly surprised. “Huh, I thought that was common knowledge. Yeah, I’m from Iowa. The weather wasn’t much better there, honestly.”

“ _That’s_ why Tony makes corn jokes,” Peter said with sudden understanding.

“That would be it,” Clint agreed, long-sufferingly amused. He turned to Sam. “Did you know I was from Iowa?”

“I don’t know where I thought you were from,” Sam replied. “I guess Iowa makes sense.”

“Why does it make sense?” Clint asked, suspicious. Sam waved a hand.

“Archery is kinda redneck, right?”

Clint sputtered, and Natasha covered her mouth to hide her smile.

“Didn’t you grow up in New York?” she asked Sam before Clint could retort.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I like the weather,” Sam answered.

“Fair enough,” she said. 

“I’m not redneck,” Clint muttered, and Sam gave him an ‘oh really’ look. The two debated it for the entire time it took to walk to Peter’s school, and only ceased when Ned and MJ made their way over to greet them.

“Hey, guys!” Ned exclaimed, beaming at each of them in turn. “Oh my god, Peter, your hair is actually blue!”

“I told you it was,” MJ said, unimpressed.

“I believed you, it’s just _really_ blue!”

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Natasha said proudly. Ned nodded.

“Yeah, dude, it looks sick!”

“Thanks,” Peter said, blushing at the compliment. MJ pinched his cheek with an entirely straight face. She then fixed her steady gaze on Clint, who looked surprised, then a bit intimidated, then surprised that he was being intimidated.

“Hi?” he said. “Good to see you?”

“Why is the left elevator the best one?” she asked.

Clint looked utterly bemused. “You mean at the tower? How did you even… Okay. Well, it was the first elevator I went in, and then it became a habit and Bruce asked me about it one day, and I told him it was the best one. And… I guess word got out? I don’t even… Yeah.”

MJ looked amused. “I figured it was a sentimental thing. One of the lights flickers a bit, so it can’t be the best elevator from a practical standpoint.”

“I never noticed that,” said Clint. “Are you some kind of spy? I thought _I_ was observant.”

“I guess your hypervigilance doesn’t extend to elevators,” Natasha said. Clint looked faintly dazed, like his world had been put in a blender.

“I think your existence broke him,” Sam remarked. MJ looked pleased with herself.

“He looked like this after he met Hill, too,” Natasha said. “I think it’s a powerful women thing.”

“You’re a force to be reckoned with,” Ned told MJ admiringly. “I’m glad I’m your friend. Otherwise you’d be terrifying.”

“I still think she’s terrifying,” Peter said, and Sam laughed.

“Guess you better watch out, then.”

\----

Peter was working through his math homework that afternoon under Bucky’s watchful eye when curiosity finally got the best of him. It had been eating at him for days, and MJ’s comment in the elevator had catalyzed it along. He set down his pencil and looked up, studying Bucky’s tranquil expression.

“Stuck,” Bucky asked.

Peter shook his head. “I… um… I was… I just had a question.”

Bucky inclined his head, prompting Peter on. Peter hesitated; Bucky patiently waited him out.

“Why do… um… Why do you care so much about me?”

Surprise flashed across Bucky’s face, and Peter ducked his head.

“Sorry, that was…” Peter trailed off, waving his hand and picking up his pencil, focusing firmly on the paper in front of him. He read the problem five times without absorbing any information at all.

“You reminded me of Steve,” Bucky finally said. “But. You’re also different. Don’t really think I can explain it. It’s like. What coffee does to my brain in…” he tapped his chest, “here.”

“You _love_ coffee,” said Peter dumbly. Bucky gave him a hard look.

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“You’re a good person,” Bucky said definitively. “You are kind. And gentle. And…” Bucky looked frustrated when more words didn’t come. Peter’s cheeks were pinker than ever.

“That’s really nice of you,” he squeaked.

“You. Deserve the fucking world,” Bucky told him, pushing the words out. “I hafta protect you. But. I can’t. Right now.”

Peter met Bucky’s eyes, slightly taken aback by the fear and desolation that was welling in them. He didn’t know what to say, so he dropped his pencil and notebook and reached out, grasping Bucky’s right hand between his own. Bucky pressed his lips together, letting his head fall away from Peter onto his pillow. A heavy silence stretched between them.

“I’m sorry,” Peter finally choked. “It’s my fault. It’s my f-fault. You should’ve-”

“ _No_ ,” Bucky said with such force that Peter flinched a little under its impact. “No. I knew. what I was doing. It was my choice. I don’t regret it.”

“But…” Peter lifted his hand, gesturing to the bed, tears welling in his eyes.

“Give it up. My choice. Autonomy. Stop blaming your goddamn self,” Bucky said, stoic and hoarse at the same time.

The door swung open and Sam and Steve trooped in, grins dropping off their faces in favor of somber expressions at the sight of Peter’s tears and the lines in Bucky’s face.

“Is everything okay?” Steve asked worriedly.

“Just lettin’ this little punk know how much I care about him,” said Bucky, and Steve’s expression softened. 

“We can leave if you’re not done,” Sam offered. Bucky shook his head.

“He gets it.”

Peter sniffled a little, dragging a sleeve across his face. Sam plucked a tissue from the box on the bedside table and handed it to him; he mumbled his thanks without making eye contact, blowing his nose before letting himself be tucked under Bucky’s arm. Bucky ran his fingers through Peter’s vivid blue hair gently, then looked up to Steve and Sam.

“Did you bring me coffee.”

“Sorry, pal,” Steve said mournfully. Bucky wrinkled his nose in distaste, and Sam covered a laugh.

“If it makes you feel better, we didn’t get any for ourselves,” he offered.

“Hm.”

Sam sat down in a chair, leaning back and giving Bucky a studying look.

“I have to leave tomorrow to get back to DC. Is that okay with you?”

“Why wouldn’t it be.”

Sam lifted an eyebrow.

“S’fine,” Bucky insisted. “Doctors say I’m getting better. It’s Steve you gotta worry about.”

Steve crossed his arms. “I’m fine.”

“My momma told me not to hang out with liars and hypocrites, yet here I am,” Sam sighed. Neither Steve nor Bucky managed to look terribly guilty.

“It’s fine,” Bucky said again. “Don’t want to keep you from the vets.”

“They can live without me for another few days if they have to. Are you sure you two will be alright?”

“Yes.”

“Do you promise to talk to each other? No moping?”

Steve and Bucky nodded grudgingly.

“We’re getting better at that,” Bucky muttered. Sam held his hands up.

“I believe you. Once a human disaster doesn’t mean always a human disaster.”

“We’re not human disasters,” Steve said indignantly.

“That, my friend, is a matter of opinion,” Sam replied. He reached out and touched Peter’s shoulder gently. “How ‘bout you, are you doing alright?”

“M’okay,” Peter said, his voice crackly and quiet. “I just…” He buried his face in the blankets, but Sam waited him out. “I don’t think I deserve people like you guys.”

“Again, a matter of opinion,” said Sam. “Maybe you don’t think you deserve us, but we certainly do. I know for a fact that every person in this tower loves you to bits, and when that many people care about you, the chances of it being unfounded are remarkably low. You’re just gonna have to trust us, kiddo. Got it?”

Peter’s lip trembled with emotion, and he nodded. Bucky gave him a little squeeze; Sam smiled at him.

“Captain Rogers, Mrs. Potts would like to see you,” said JARVIS. “She wishes to discuss the press event next week before dinner.”

Steve got to his feet, lingering a bit by Bucky’s side before Bucky shooed him off.

“Go on. Don’t waste Pepper’s time.”

Steve shuffled out the door; Peter heard his footsteps recede down the hall. 

“Any trouble at school today?” Sam asked Peter, who shook his head, wiping the residue of tears from his face.

“I thought they might… because of my hair, but nobody really said anything about it, except my English teacher. He said it looked cool, it was really nice of him. Some kids gave me funny looks and stuff, but nothing really happened.”

Bucky pursed his lips. “What about Flash.”

“I sort of avoided him. I think he’s scared of MJ, which helps.”

Bucky nodded.

“MJ seems very nice,” Sam said. “I overheard Natasha talking about inviting her to come to a training session sometime. Something about karate?”

“She’s testing for her black belt next week, I think,” Peter replied.

“I’d tell you to wish her luck for me, but I’m sure she’ll do great,” said Sam, smiling. He picked up Peter’s notebook and pencil from the floor and scanned over it before handing it over. “Trigonometry? Looks like fun.”

Peter groaned, which pulled a tiny smile out of Bucky. He started the problem he’d been working on over; he hadn’t been focusing at all earlier. Sam and Bucky’s quiet conversation became background as he worked through a set of problems on cosine addition and subtraction. It was easy for him, but he didn’t really mind the busy work. It was a good distraction.

\----  
A karate MJ:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading; I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Comments are appreciated!
> 
> I'm happy to say that my surgery went well, and I'm now back home recovering. I haven't been able to write much yet, but I had this chapter pre-written, so I figured I'd edit and post it for you all. Thank you to all those who wished me luck! The positive vibes were appreciated!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tutus, toilets, and testing.

Come Monday morning, Peter ambled into the kitchen for breakfast to find Tony, drinking coffee with a bowl of froot loops in hand.

“Morning, kiddo,” Tony said, passing him the bowl and pulling a carton of milk from the fridge. He poured a splash into his coffee before setting it next to Peter at the table.

“Morning,” Peter replied, rubbing his eyes a little. Tony smiled at him fondly.

“Loving the hair. Very punk rock.”

Peter ran a hand through his rumpled blue locks.

“Thanks,” he said, ducking his head a little.

“I like your new friend, too… MJ? I think we have another Nat on our hands.”

Peter nodded. “She kneed Flash in the balls. I think Ned’s in love.”

Tony laughed. “I’d pay to see that. Actually, I don’t think I have to. Your school has security cameras, right? JARVIS, remind me to bring up the feed later.”

“You… have access to those?”

“I have access to everything,” Tony said, waving a hand. “Don’t worry. Nobody else will see it. Except for Clint, if I’m feeling kind.”

“It would probably make his day,” said Peter, smiling.

“Probably,” Tony agreed. “Maybe I’ll hold it over his head. Bribery. Incentive.”

“To do what?”

“Who knows?” Tony grinned. “Maybe I’ll have him wear a tutu.”

Peter covered his mouth, holding in laughter.

“He might actually enjoy that,” said Natasha, appearing out of nowhere, and both Peter and Tony jumped.

“Jesus fucking christ!” Tony flailed, then organized his arms so they were crossed over his chest. “You need a better hobby. Motherfucker. ”

Natasha inspected her nails innocently. Tony huffed.

“I’m gonna have a heart attack and it’ll be your fault someday. Wait, did you say Clint would enjoy wearing a tutu?”

Natasha shrugged. “He might.”

“Are we talking about the same Clint? No way. I bet you a hundred bucks you can’t get him into a tutu.”

“You’re on.” Natasha offered a shark-like smirk and slunk off to the living room. Tony watched her go, then looked at Peter.

“Why do I feel like that was a bad idea?”

“It probably was,” Peter told him through a mouthful of froot loops.

 

\----

 

When Peter had told Sam and Bucky that nobody had bothered him at school about his hair, he hadn’t taken the locker room into account. He had gym class after lunch on Mondays, and it didn’t occur to him that things might go wrong until it was too late. He was pulling on his gym shorts when the hair on the back of his neck stood up and he braced himself for whatever was coming at him. It ended up being a shoe, not a regular one, but a soccer cleat that made a painful acquaintance with the back of his head. He sucked in a breath and turned to face whoever had thrown it.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t Flash. It was, unfortunately, Payton Douglas. The kid who’d beaten him up with a bunch of friends after he’d stopped them from wailing on some poor freshman. Joy, Peter thought to himself. What fun. Also, _shit_. It must’ve shown on his face, because Douglas grinned.

“No big friends to save you now, huh?”

Peter clenched his jaw. He might be able to get out of this one. He was faster than Douglas for sure. If he just… Douglas started striding forward, and Peter made a break for it. He would’ve made it, too, if one of Douglas’s goons hadn’t stepped in front of him like a damn elephant. He crashed headfirst into the guy, who didn’t even stagger back. Douglas was grabbing him and he could take him down easily, but not while everyone was watching. He couldn’t afford to raise any suspicion. He let himself be dragged back over the disgusting floor to a bench, where he was dumped unceremoniously. 

“I heard Mr. Davis likes your hair,” Douglas said, baring his teeth with malice. Douglas was right, Mr. Davis had complimented Peter’s hair, but Peter knew better than to reply. “Well I gotta problem with Mr. Davis. He’s a piece of shit teacher. That means your hair’s a piece of shit, too.”

Peter didn’t really see the logic, but he didn’t reply. Douglas continued.

“That means the hair’s gotta go. It’s gotta go where all shit goes.”

One of the goons snickered, and Peter’s stomach filled with dread.

“Toilet,” Douglas said, grinning wider than ever. “It’s gotta go in the toilet.”

Well, shit. Literally, Peter’s brain supplied. He inhaled deep and exhaled slow as he was manhandled across the room, Douglas on his right and another kid at his left, gripping his arm tight enough to bruise. Hopefully they would fade in a few hours. They kicked the stall door open and Peter caught one glimpse of the shit-filled toilet and decided that was it. He would’ve taken it if they’d decided to beat him, but not this.

“Ready?” Douglas said, leering at him, and he hooked a leg around Douglas’s knees and wiped him to the floor. To his relief, the goons were shocked enough not to follow when he ran for the door to the gym, sliding through and skidding to a casual walk as he ambled towards the class.

“Don’t stop running now!” the teacher barked. “Laps, Mr. Parker! You’re late!”

Peter sighed, kicking back up into a run, speeding up each time he passed the locker room doors. It could’ve been worse. He was pretty sure Bucky hadn’t bugged him this morning, but… Well, maybe he had. He’d text Bucky saying he was okay after class. Really, it could be worse.

 

\----

 

“Barnes is furious,” Hill said matter-of-factly as he made his way down the steps to meet her on the sidewalk after school. “Something about a toilet?”

Peter sighed. “Nothing happened. I’m fine.”

Hill arched a dubious eyebrow.

“Really, they just pushed me around a little. Can we not talk about it?” Peter begged.

“Alright,” Hill said mercifully. “Did you hear about the new bet between Nat and Tony?”

Peter smiled a little. “The one with the tutu? Yeah. Who do you think will win?”

“It’ll be Nat. She’ll find a way.”

Peter nodded. “I hope someone videos it.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Hill. “I’ve been tailing Clint a bit because I don’t want to miss it; I think he’s getting suspicious.”

“How do you think Natasha will do it?”

“I don’t know,” Hill mused. Peter felt a few raindrops on his bare skin and frowned up a the sky. Hill picked up her pace, and Peter hurried to match it.

“Tony wants to use incentive, but I don’t think his will work.”

“What’s his incentive?” asked Hill.

“A video of Flash getting kicked in the balls.”

“Not bad, though Tony’s kidding himself if he thinks he can keep that from Clint.”

“That’s what I thought,” Peter said. “Clint’s just gonna find it and watch it, and then Tony has nothing.”

“Nat has all the real dirt on Clint, anyway,” Hill agreed. “She definitely has a plan, but she hasn’t told me anything about it. She’s going for secrecy.”

“We’ll find out eventually,” Peter said.

“We will.”

The two of them ducked their heads as rain began to fall in earnest; Peter pulled up his hood and Hill zipped up her coat. 

“Lovely weather,” Hill said, wrinkling her nose. “I liked DC better.”

“Hey,” Peter protested halfheartedly. “New York is great.”

“I never said it wasn’t,” Hill told him, sounding fond. “Watch your hair. You don’t want it to bleed blue.”

Peter pulled his hood more firmly over his head, and the two of them jogged the last half-block to the tower. Hill exhaled as they stepped inside, enjoying the warmth of the lobby. They got into the left elevator, which took them to the medbay without prompting. 

Sure enough, Bucky was looking outraged when Peter and Hill slid into his room. He tugged Peter in by the wrist when he was close enough, reaching up to check for bruises and wounds.

“Report,” he demanded Hill.

“We talked about Clint wearing a tutu and New York’s terrible weather.”

Bucky looked displeased and slightly insulted for his home city.

“You were supposed to find out what happened. And New York is great.”

Hill laughed, making Bucky frown even more.

“Why are you laughing.”

“Peter said the same thing about New York,” Hill told him, the corners of her eyes crinkling. Bucky huffed a little, then turned to Peter.

“What happened.”

“It was nothing,” Peter said, shuffling his feet a bit. “Just some kids being annoying.”

“Was it Flash,” asked Bucky; Peter shook his head. Bucky squinted. “Then who.”

Peter hesitated. “Payton Douglas. The one who-”

“That one,” Bucky snarled, eyes flashing. He pushed himself into a sitting position, seeming to forget his predicament until he fell back, catching himself with his arms. He gritted his teeth, balling his hands into fists and exhaling in a short huff.

“Easy,” Hill said lightly; Bucky glared daggers at her. “I’ll take care of it, Barnes.”

“What do you mean?” Peter asked, alarmed. “Take care of it… That makes it sound like you’re going to… I don’t know, corner him in a dark alley.”

Bucky made a vaguely approving sound. Hill laughed and ruffled Peter’s blue hair. 

“Don’t worry about it.”

 

\----

 

The next day, when Peter passed Payton Douglas in the hall, the kid ran. Actually, literally ran far, far away. Peter stared after him, shocked. Beside him, Ned’s jaw was almost on the floor. MJ let out a delighted snicker. Everyone around them gaped.

“Dude, what did you _do_ to him?” one kid asked, looking curious and honestly a little nervous.

“I… Nothing. I didn’t do anything,” Peter squeaked, disconcerted. 

The kid made a face of incredulity. 

“I didn’t!” Peter insisted.

“Okay,” the kid said, disbelieving. “Sure, Parker.”

Peter rubbed his forehead, exhaling. Everyone began to disperse, ambling towards their next classes, not-so-subtly staring at him as they passed.

“What was that?” Ned whispered.

“I don’t know!” Peter replied. “I really didn’t do anything!”

“Hm,” MJ said, studying her nails; the two of them turned to look at her.

“Did _you_ do something?” Ned asked.

“Who, me?” MJ gave them a wide smile. “I’d never.”

“Oh my god, we never should’ve introduced you to Peter’s family,” Ned groaned. “I just got over being scared of you, sort of. Now I’m scared again.”

“You should always be scared of me,” MJ said reasonably.

“Noted,” said Ned, taking a small step back. Peter buried his face in his hands.

 

\----

 

When Peter got home that afternoon, he was certainly not expecting to find three tutu-clad people in the living room having a dance party, two of whom were children. The third, of course, was Clint. 

The day just kept getting weirder, he thought to himself, and scanned the room.

Natasha was watching from the sidelines with Tony, Pepper, and three strangers; there was a satisfied expression on her face. Tony looked utterly floored, his jaw gaping. The three strangers, probably parents and/or guardians of the children, looked like they were enjoying themselves from the couch, which had been pushed back to the wall. Pepper was sitting with them, chatting amicably and watching the tutu trio prance around.

Peter dropped his backpack by the door and shuffled over to Natasha, who grinned at him. 

“I won,” she said cheerfully. Tony’s eye twitched a little.

“Peter!” Pepper exclaimed, waving him over to the couch. “How was school today, sweetheart?”

“Not bad,” Peter said. 

“Good. I’m glad to hear it,” replied Pepper, smiling warmly. She turned to the other parents. “This is Peter, my son. Peter, this is Eric, Caleb’s father, and Rachel and Aleisha, Clara’s moms.”

“Nice to meet you,” Peter said, shaking their hands politely. He looked up as Hill came hurrying in, skidding to a neat stop beside Peter and surveying the scene in distant amusement.

“She did it. She got him in a tutu.”

“She did,” Peter agreed, grinning a little. His expression faded a little once he saw the tightness around Hill’s eyes; it definitely wasn’t a smile. “What’s wrong?”

“They’re going to test Barnes. See if he’s regained any feeling in his lower body. You can’t see him now, but I thought you should know before you go down afterwards.”

“Oh,” Peter said. He felt like he’d been dunked in ice water. Hill squeezed his shoulder.

“The doctors are hopeful. Try to do that optimism thing.”

Peter let out a shaky laugh. “Right. Optimism.”

Eric, Rachel, and Aleisha were looking at them worriedly. Hill flashed them a practiced smile.

“Is Steve alright?” Pepper mouthed. Hill grimaced and wiggled her hand in a ‘sort of’ motion.

“Bruce told him to hit the gym. He’s been down there for an hour. JARVIS is keeping an eye on him.”

“Have you called Sam?”

“No, it’s not that bad.” Hill paused. “Yet.”

“Yet.” Pepper sighed. “Well, alright. Keep me updated.”

Hill nodded. She looked to Peter, who was slightly paler now. “Come on, I’ll make you a snack.”

Peter followed her towards the kitchen; Pepper seemed to misjudge his hearing range, because he picked up on her saying, “Peter’s… uncle, James, was in an accident, and he was paralyzed from the waist down…”

Peter wrung his hands, giving Hill an anxious look.

“What if they say he isn’t getting better?”

Hill regarded him calmly. “Then we look for alternatives. Rhodey’s coming to visit; he’s paralyzed, but you know he’s mobile and healthy. Tony worked hard to get him hooked up to braces. They’re like the metal arm in the internal wiring aspect, but they wrap around the limbs instead of replacing them. This isn’t the end of the line for Barnes, and it won’t do him any good if we start thinking that.”

“Right, sorry,” Peter murmured. 

Hill fluffed his hair gently and grabbed a couple apples from the fruit bowl, digging up a knife and slicing them into a bowl. She then pulled out a carton of strawberries, cutting off the leafy tops and sliding them into the trash; the berries went on top of the apples in the bowl, which she placed in front of Peter.

“Thanks,” he said, ducking his head before beginning to eat. Hill smiled gently at him.

“We’ll know the results soon. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst, hm?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Thank you all so much for your patience! I wasn't able to write much after my surgery because of the pain, so I'm just now getting back on track. I really appreciate the support and well wishes! You're all so wonderful! Many many hugs :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Misery and moping.

Peter knew it was bad news the second he met Bruce, Steve, and Tony outside the elevator in the medbay; Steve’s trembling shoulders would’ve clued him in if he’d managed to miss Bruce’s tight, regretful expression. His knees felt wobbly, and he would’ve slid to the floor right there in the hallway if Tony hadn’t gotten an arm around him first.

“Easy,” Tony said, giving Peter a squeeze. His seriousness was unnerving. “Look, it’s not the worst news, alright? The vertebrae have healed completely. Just… the nerves have only improved slightly. Not enough to see him walk on his own.”

Peter sucked in a breath at the same time that Steve let out a tiny, stifled sound. Steve tried to step around Bruce towards Bucky’s room, but Bruce caught his arm; something flashed in Steve’s eyes before he visibly forced himself to relax and stand down.

“I want to see him.”

“He asked to be left alone,” Tony told Steve, sounding unusually cautious. “For now.”

Steve started to protest, but Bruce silenced him with a _look_.

“Why don’t you go upstairs and call Sam? You promised to keep him updated, didn’t you?”

Steve didn’t move for a moment too long, but he then deflated and turned back to the elevator. Peter caught a glimpse of his face and couldn’t help but notice how _young_ he looked, lost-eyed, but somehow ancient at the same time. Bruce pursed his lips, watching him leave.

“JARVIS, can you keep an eye on him? Maybe ask Nat to stay with him?” he asked once the elevator had gone.

“Already done, Dr. Banner,” JARVIS replied. Bruce nodded, giving Peter a tight smile before heading towards Bucky’s room. Tony squeezed Peter lightly around the shoulders again.

“Want to head down to the workshop and math until you can’t feel your brain?”

Peter tried to reply, but all that came out was a cracked sound. He cleared his throat. “Yeah.”

“Great. I need to redo an algorithm to account for turbulence, so we need to use Navier-Stokes. Totally brain-numbing. You’ll love it.”

 

\----

 

Peter was on his third hour of calculations and his vision was swimming with numbers by the time JARVIS requested his attention. He dragged his knuckles over his eyes before looking up.

“Yeah?”

“Sergeant Barnes would like to see you.”

Peter was out of the workshop so fast that he barely caught Tony’s goodbye. He stumbled into the elevator; if there was a railing to grip, he probably would’ve broken it by now. He rushed out into the medbay, down the hall, and skidded to a stop in the doorway. Steve was wrapped around Bucky’s side like an octopus, sobbing silently into Bucky’s shirt. Bucky looked tired and red-eyed, but his lips twitched when he saw Peter.

“I can…” Peter trailed off, biting his lip; he jerked his head towards the door in gesture to the hallway. 

Bucky rolled his eyes and reached out with his free arm, and the invitation was all Peter needed. He scurried over and curled up on Bucky’s other side, melting into the warmth that Bucky and Steve radiated.

“Don’t cry,” Bucky said, a bit gruff. “I don’t want both of you losing it.”

Steve mumbled something into Bucky’s shirt that sounded like “I’m not losing it.”

“Yeah, right,” Bucky muttered. He looked back to Peter. “Doctors said to stay positive. There’s still a chance. World ain’t ending or whatever.”

Peter nodded, sniffling and exhaling slowly. He didn’t meet Bucky’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Bucky jerked a little. “Don’t say that. Not your fault.”

Peter fidgeted with the blankets under his hands.

“Not. Your. Fucking. Fault. Are you listening.”

“Yeah.” Peter winced at how childish his voice sounded.

“I don’t fucking blame you. So stop that.”

“Sorry,” Peter murmured. Bucky brushed his hand over Peter’s blue hair in a forgiving manner.

There was a knock on the door and Bucky stiffened, then relaxed when it was Pepper who poked her head in.

“I thought I’d find you two here,” she said. “I just wanted to check in. Can I sit down?”

Bucky gestured to the foot of the bed, and Pepper perched herself on the edge of the mattress; she took a canvas bag off her shoulder and rested it in her lap.

“I asked Rhodey to come visit tomorrow. Is that okay with you, Barnes?”

Bucky shrugged, but made an assenting sound. Pepper gave him a kind smile.

“I think his insight will be helpful.” She paused, digging around in her bag. “I know it isn’t easy, being laid up, so I brought some things for you.”

She pulled out a ball of yarn and two wooden needles and set them carefully in his lap. He surveyed them appraisingly, then lifted his eyes to hers.

“Knitting.”

Pepper nodded. “It’s very practical. I used to knit more often, but I just don’t have the time anymore.”

“Hm.”

“Give it a try,” Pepper told him. “You might like it. If not…”

She pulled out a small box and passed it over. He opened it, eyebrows lifting when he peered inside.

“Are these darts,” he asked.

“Magnetized ones, from Clint. Tony added his own touch, you’ll see.”

“Should I be scared.”

Pepper laughed. “No. Here, Peter, why don’t you hang the board on that wall?”

Peter took the small target and stood up, crossing the small room and sticking it to the blank wall. When he returned, Pepper was slipping an odd bracelet onto Bucky’s wrist.

“Give it a try,” she encouraged. 

Bucky picked up a dart, aimed it, and threw; it hit the target dead center. He frowned a little. “How do I get it back.”

Pepper smiled and reached over, pressing a tiny button on the bracelet. The dart came flying back, and Bucky caught it delicately between his fingers. He nodded slowly.

“Nice of Stark.”

“He shows that he cares in funny ways,” Pepper agreed cheerfully. “I’ll tell him you like it.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem, Barnes. Anything you need, let me know.” She stood up, pressing a kiss to Peter’s forehead before making her way to the door. “I’ve got work to do. You boys be good. And for goodness’s sake, Steve, stop moping.”

Steve lifted his head; his offended expression was almost a comical contrast to his red, puffy eyes. “I’m not moping.”

Bucky let out a sharp laugh. “Yeah, _right_. Punk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments are appreciated.
> 
> I'm feeling a whole lot better! I've been busy catching up on work and stuff, so I still haven't been able to write as much as I'd like, but I'm working on getting back on track! I've also been spending a bit more time on art than usual. Here's my most recent endeavor:
> 
>  
> 
> Also... INFINITY WAR aksosfdokjn (no spoilers for those who haven't seen it!)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm.

The next morning when Peter went up for breakfast, he found Rhodey and Tony at the table deep in conversation, matching mugs of coffee in front of them. Rhodey looked up and smiled at Peter.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Peter replied, stifling a yawn. Rhodey looked sympathetic.

“There’s more coffee on the counter if you want some.”

Peter looked to Tony. “Can I?”

“Sure? Why are you asking me? Should I say no? JARVIS, can teenagers have coffee?”

“There is no harm in Mr. Parker indulging in a cup every now and then,” JARVIS replied.

“Thanks, J. There’s your answer, Petey-Pie. Go for it.”

Peter nodded and headed into the kitchen, pouring himself a bowl of cereal and a mug of coffee. He made his way to the table, sliding into the seat across from Rhodey.

“That’s some funny-looking milk,” Rhodey observed, studying Peter’s bowl of cereal.

Peter looked down; the milk in his cereal was brown. It looked suspiciously like… coffee. He groaned. Tony covered a little snicker. Rhodey peered into the mug, which, sure enough, was full of milk.

“It happens,” Rhodey said consolingly. “You can make yourself another bowl.”

“I don’t want to waste food,” said Peter, frowning at his coffee-bathed cheerios.

“Cereal with coffee isn’t that bad. I used to eat it in college sometimes,” Tony offered. Rhodey shook his head.

“Yeah, when you were such a zombie that you didn’t care what was going in your body as long as something was coming out.”

“That’s fair,” Tony said. “Hey, I’ll eat it if you don’t want it.”

Peter took a spoonful of coffee-cereal and chewed in consideration. He wrinkled his nose, but took another bite.

“Milk will help,” Rhodey told him, picking up the mug of milk and pouring some into the cereal. Peter tried some more, nodding this time.

“It’s not really that bad.”

“It’s like coffee ice cream, but cereal,” said Tony. “Wait, that’s actually a good idea. JARVIS, does anyone already have a patent on coffee cereal?”

“I’m afraid so, sir,” said JARVIS. “[Patent US20070098874A1](https://patents.google.com/patent/US20070098874). Coffee-flavored cereal; inventor, David Schlosser; priority date, November 2, 2005.”

“Goddammit,” Tony sighed. “I was on to something there.”

\----

At lunchtime, Peter took his seat beside Ned and MJ and frowned down at his sandwich, letting the chatter around him fill his ears. He hoped Bucky was alright. He’d still been asleep when Peter had crept down before breakfast; Peter had noticed a half-done lumpy scarf on the bedside table, which he thought might a good sign. Hopefully Rhodey was helping. Peter wanted to wring his hands; he sat on them instead, still gazing at his sandwich.

“Hey Peter.” Ned gave him a nudge and he looked up quickly, setting on his game face.

“Yeah?”

“Are you okay, man? You seem kinda down.”

Peter shrugged. “I’m alright.”

MJ pursed her lips, setting her chin on her fist. “Bad news?”

Peter looked over to her, startled. “How did you know?”

“Natasha texted me. But it’s obvious, even if she hadn’t.”

Peter stared at her. “You have Natasha’s number? 

“You have the _Black Widow’s_ number?” Ned asked. “Can I have the Black Widow’s number?”

MJ wrinkled her nose at him disdainfully and he ducked his head, chastised. 

Peter still looked utterly confused. “Why… When…” 

“Nat and I are friends now. She asked me to keep an eye on you.”

Peter gaped for a few more seconds. “I don’t… I’m fine.”

“What happened?” Ned asked, back to concerned.

Peter hesitated before replying. “The doctors said… Bucky’s nerves haven’t improved much. He probably… um… probably won’t walk by himself.”

“Oh no! I’m so sorry, that’s awful.”

MJ reached over and patted Peter’s arm. “Let us know if there’s anything we can do for you.”

Peter looked slightly surprised again. “Thanks. It’s… That’s really nice of you.”

“Is Bucky doing okay?” Ned asked worriedly.

“I think so. He hasn’t really talked about it yet.” Peter bit his lip. Ned bumped their shoulders together.

“You should eat your lunch,” MJ said.

Peter picked up his sandwich and took a reluctant bite. He got through half of it before the bell rang, and MJ prompted him to eat a few more bites before leaving the remains in the trash can. Ned tossed an arm over his shoulders as they started down the hall, and Peter was struck by the sudden realization that _this_ was what it was like to have friends. Real ones. His age. It was kind of astonishing.

\----

Peter just about had a panic attack when he got home and Bucky wasn’t in his room. The bed was empty, and Peter’s chest closed up.

“Mr. Parker, Sergeant Barnes is in Sir’s workshop,” JARVIS provided helpfully. Peter let out a long breath before another wave of anxiety struck him.

“Why? Is he okay?”

“All is well. Sergeant Barnes, Colonel Rhodes, and Sir are looking through schematics.”

Peter loosened. “Okay. Thanks, JARVIS.”

“I suspect you’d be very welcome if you were to pay them a visit.”

“Okay,” Peter said again. 

He made his way back towards the elevator, which he took down to Tony’s workshop. The doors opened, and he was presented with the sight of Bucky in a wheelchair, watching as Tony and Rhodey studied what looked like schematics. To Peter’s surprise, Bite-Size, one of Tony’s robots, was firmly situated on Bucky’s left, seemingly fawning over Bucky, who had a fond expression on his face. His smile grew even softer when he saw Peter lingering by the elevator. He waved Peter over, catching Tony and Rhodey’s attention.

“Hey, kiddo, how was school?” Tony asked, straightening up with a jaunty grin.

“Not bad,” Peter replied.

“Learn anything interesting?” asked Rhodey.

Peter paused to think. “Actually, yeah. You know Arthur Miller? The guy who wrote _The Crucible_ and _All My Sons_?”

Rhodey nodded, looking curious.

“Well, he dedicated _All My Sons_ to his friend Elia Kazan when he wrote it in 1947. In 1952, Elia Kazan testified in front of the [House Un-American Activities Committee](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/House_Un-American_Activities_Committee) and gave up the names of his friends, so Arthur Miller went and wrote _The Crucible_ as a parallel to the communist witch hunt and Elia Kazan’s betrayal. I thought that was pretty interesting.”

“That’s pretty neat,” Rhodey agreed, sounding intrigued. “Did you learn that in English or history class?”

“Both, sort of. I mean, we read _All My Sons_ and _The Crucible_ in English class and we learned about the Red Scare in history class, and I just sort of put it together.”

“Cool beans,” Tony said, looking up from a cramped column of notes at the edge of one of his schematics. “Historical drama’s always fun.”

“Building JARVIS, can you remind me to read _All My Sons_ and _The Crucible_ ,” asked Bucky.

“Of course, Sergeant Barnes. I’ve taken the liberty of downloading them as e-books.”

“Thanks,” Bucky said.

Peter made his way over to the workbench and peered over Tony’s shoulder at the schematics. 

“We’re working on upgrades for Rhodey’s braces, and then we’re gonna take measurements for Barnes,” Tony told him.

“Can I help?” Peter asked.

“Sure. I’m pretty sure you’re Barnes’s favorite, so why don’t you do the measurements? They’re specified on…” Tony shuffled through papers before handing one to Peter. “... this version. More notes are on the back if you need them. There should be a tape measure over there, third drawer down.”

Peter nodded enthusiastically and headed over to dig up a tape measure, then came to sit on the floor in front of Bucky’s wheelchair.

“What do you have to measure,” Bucky asked.

“Uh…” Peter studied the paper, flipping it over for the elaborations. “Okay, we can start with knee to ankle.”

He reached forward to touch Bucky’s leg, and Bucky made a sound. He looked up quickly.

“Is this…”

“It’s fine,” Bucky cut him off. Then, quieter, “I can’t feel it. I can see it, but I can’t. Feel it. I should be able to feel it.”

Peter didn’t really know how to reply to that. Bucky tried to smile, but it came out slightly bitter.

“Keep going.”

“Alright,” Peter said softly. He stretched the measuring tape from Bucky’s left knee to his ankle bone, then his right one, measuring each three times and averaging the results. “Your right leg is a fifth of an inch shorter than your left.”

Bucky made an interested sound. Peter moved on the the circumference of Bucky’s ankles, calves, and knees, scribbling his results on the edge of the paper.

“Did you try knitting?” he asked, looking up at Bucky, who nodded.

“Made a scarf for Steve.”

“Cool! What color?”

“Red, white, and blue,” Bucky said seriously before his lips twitched into a smile. “Green.”

“Green’s nice,” said Peter. “Did you give it to him yet?”

Bucky shook his head. “High likelihood of strong emotion.”

Peter scrunched his eyebrows together.

“He’ll cry,” Bucky clarified. “Crying is to be avoided.”

“I think it’s sort of inevitable in this case,” Peter said cheerfully. 

Bucky groaned. “He’s such a baby.”

Peter giggled a little; Bucky’s face went soft at the sound.

“Do you want a scarf.”

Peter looked surprised. “Do I… Sure? I like scarves?”

“Are you sure. Because I could also make you a hat.”

“I… I don’t… I like both,” Peter said, pink-cheeked.

“I’ll make both, then.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to…”

Bucky silenced him with an eyebrow.

“Do I get a scarf?” Tony called.

“No. But Rhodes can have one.”

“Score!” Rhodey said. “Thanks, Barnes.”

“No fair!” Tony complained. “Why can’t I have one?”

“You asked.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Tony grumbled.

“Maybe it does,” Bucky said, “And you’re just going crazy.”

“Hey!” Tony sounded affronted. “I hope you step on a lego, Frosty.”

“That’s harsh, man,” said Rhodey, shaking his head. Tony frivolously stuck out his tongue.

\----

The next morning, Peter found Rhodey sitting by Bucky’s bed when he went down to visit before breakfast. The two of them looked up quickly when he entered; both men smiled at him.

“Morning,” Rhodey greeted warmly.

“G’morning,” Peter replied, perching himself on the end of the bed.

Bucky, propped up on the headboard, set down his knitting. “How are you.”

“I’m good,” said Peter, shrugging. 

“Did you sleep enough.”

“... Yes?”

“So no,” Bucky said.

“Not really,” Peter admitted. “It wasn’t that bad, though. Don’t worry about it.”

Bucky picked up his knitting needles again, though he didn’t look particularly mollified.

“What are you working on?” Peter asked him, changing the subject.

“Scarf for Rhodes. He’s leaving soon. I’ll make yours after.”

“You really don’t have to…”

“I want to.”

“Alright,” Peter said, ducking his head to hide his pink cheeks.

“Barnes was right. You’re precious,” said Rhodey; Peter blushed harder, then processed the words and looked up at Bucky.

“You told him I was precious?”

Bucky shrugged. “You are.”

Peter didn’t have much to say to that, thoroughly embarrassed. Rhodey smiled a little, then looked over to Bucky. Peter watched them have a silent conversation out of the corner of his eye.

“Did I interrupt you?” he asked, moving to get up. “I can go…”

“Stay,” said Bucky.

“Are you sure?” Peter glanced to Rhodey.

“His call, not mine,” Rhodey replied.

“Stay,” Bucky repeated, and Peter settled back onto the bed.

There was a long silence in which Rhodey studied Bucky carefully; Peter was glad he wasn’t the one under scrutiny.

“Yes,” Bucky said suddenly, and Rhodey tilted his head.

“What are you saying yes to?”

“What you asked earlier.” Bucky gritted his teeth. “About being afraid.”

“Yes, you’re afraid?” Rhodey prompted; Bucky nodded slowly. “Can I ask why?”

“Can you?” Bucky said imperiously. Rhodey lifted an eyebrow and Bucky huffed out a breath, deflating a little. “‘Cause I’m broke. Can’t do my job.”

“I can understand that.”

Bucky made a disbelieving sound and Rhodey fixed him with another _look_ , tapping the braces on his legs. Bucky looked mildly chastised.

“I can understand feeling useless, not being able to do what you feel like you’re meant to. It’s not easy.” Rhodey took a contemplative pause. “This isn’t what you want to hear, but the first step is accepting help. Yes, someone has to sit you up and move you around. Someone has to get things for you. Someone has to even change your pants. You’re at everyone’s mercy, and that’s a tough deal. 

“But it’s not just that kind of help,” Rhodey continued. “You have to accept that while you’re not doing your job, someone else is. Someone else is looking after Steve. Someone else is keeping an eye on Peter. Someone else is keeping you safe. And trusting other people with that is _hard_ , and you just have to do it, because that’s the way things are now. _But_ ,” Rhodey said. “But it doesn’t mean thing will be that way forever. If anyone can make it through this, it’s you.”

Bucky was silent. He tilted his head down to look at his knitting, seemingly having some intense internal conflict. Peter fiddled with the blankets he was sitting on; Bucky’s eyes twitched up at the movement, following the source up to Peter’s taut face. Peter was taken aback by his anguished expression, which lasted only a second before it was beaten down into something stony. Peter reached out, helplessly catching Bucky’s sleeve. Bucky arranged his face into a pseudo-smile and patted Peter’s hand.

“You oughta go eat your breakfast. Steve and Banner are walking you to school.”

“Are you…” Peter trailed off, trying to find a better way to say something childish. “Are you going to be okay?”

Bucky’s face tightened. “‘Course I am, Pete. Don’t you go worrying about me.”

“I can’t help it,” Peter said, sad-eyed. 

Bucky gave his hand a quick squeeze. “Go on. I’m fine.”

Peter reluctantly got to his feet, looking to Rhodey, who gave him a smile; it was small but genuine.

“I’ll stick around with Barnes today. Go be a kid and learn things.”

Peter hesitated, but slowly made his way out the door, closing it behind himself. He paused, debating whether or not to stay and listen; his curiosity and concern eventually won and he leaned in, his ear brushing the door.

“You have more purpose than that,” Rhodey was saying. “There are-”

Bucky cut in, but he was speaking quietly enough that Peter couldn’t hear him over the beeping of machines across the hall and the chattering of two nurses in the break room. 

“ _Yes_ ,” Rhodey said emphatically. “Of course you have the right to make another. Don’t give me that look, Barnes. It might work on Tony, but I’m not afraid of you.”

“You should be.” Bucky spoke louder. “I’m dangerous.”

“Personally, I think Tony’s more dangerous. Hey, hear me out. You’re both dangerous, but Tony blows things up by accident sometimes. You’d only blow something up on purpose.”

There was a long pause. “I guess,” Bucky said, sounding reluctant.

“Anyway, let’s get back on topic. Hey, quit it with that look, you can’t distract me. Purpose.”

“Purpose,” Bucky huffed. He said something else, but Peter couldn’t quite catch it… and then someone was tapping his shoulder. He jumped nearly out of his skin, twisting to find Natasha behind him, arms crossed. Busted.

“What did I tell you about eavesdropping?” she said, lifting a deadly eyebrow.

“Sorry,” Peter replied quickly, ducking his head in remorse. “I’m sorry.”

“Steve made breakfast without setting anything on fire and you’re not there, and now he looks like someone killed a box of puppies,” she informed him cooly. 

“Sorry,” he repeated, fully contrite this time. “I just…”

She looked unimpressed. “You just…”

“I…” Peter’s cheeks were red with embarrassment; he looked at his feet.

Natasha sighed. “Go eat breakfast.”

Peter scrambled off to the elevator, which seemed to be waiting for him. He fidgeted with the he of his shirt as it took him up to the common floor; he darted out as the door were opening, skidding to a stop by the table.

“Sorry! I’m really sorry,” he said earnestly, taking a seat.

Steve’s face softened into a smile at the sight of him. “Don’t worry about it. You still have ten minutes.”

“Plenty of time,” Bruce agreed around a mouthful of breakfast sandwich. 

Peter picked up his own toasted sandwich, which was still warm, smelled delicious, and tasted as good as the scent. “Mmm.”

Steve looked delighted. “Do you like it?”

Peter nodded quickly. “It’s really good,” he said once he swallowed. “You did a great job.”

Steve grinned, as wide and bright as a sunrise. “Thank you! I wanted to see if you liked it before bringing one down to Buck. I want to impress him.”

“I think he’ll be impressed,” Peter said in assurance. “They taste amazing.”

“I burned the first two,” Steve admitted. “It took me a little while to figure out how long to cook the eggs.”

“The burned ones didn’t taste that bad,” Bruce told Peter. “I ate them.”

“You didn’t have to,” Steve said, and Bruce waved a hand.

“Really, I’ve had much worse.”

“Well, alright.” Steve sounded dubious. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to bring Buck his sandwich.”

“Tell him I’ll be down later to supervise the tests,” said Bruce, and Steve nodded seriously.

Peter watched as Steve picked up a plate and a cup of orange juice from the counter and disappeared into the elevator.

“What tests?” Peter asked, turning to Bruce as soon as Steve was gone.

“We’re going to pinpoint the extent of the nerve damage with some experimental tech and compare it to the old results.”

“How… how bad do you think it’ll be?”

Bruce offered a sad smile. “I don’t know. I don’t think it’ll be good.”

Peter took another bite of his sandwich and looked down at the table. 

“I’m sorry, Peter,” Bruce said gently.

Peter shrugged, trying for impassive. Bruce clearly saw through the facade, but didn’t pry. Bruce was good at not prying, and Peter was eternally grateful for it. 

“Tony wanted me to remind you that you’re welcome down in the labs and the workshop any time,” Bruce mentioned. “You can help as much or as little as you’d like with Barnes’s braces.”

“I don’t want to… mess them up,” Peter said faintly. Bruce gave him an unimpressed look.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m sure Barnes would be more inclined to trust them if you helped.”

“You think so?” Peter asked, almost shy, taking another bite of breakfast sandwich.

“I’m pretty certain.”

“Oh,” Peter murmured. “I just… I don’t…”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but I think it’d be good for everyone involved.”

Peter didn’t reply, finishing his sandwich slowly. The elevator doors opened and Steve strode over, a green knit scarf wrapped around his neck.

“Ready to go?” he asked, fiddling absently with the edges of the yarn.

“Getting into fashion?” Bruce asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“Buck made it,” Steve said, both proud and defiant. 

Bruce held up his hands. “I wasn’t trying to insult it, just curious. You don’t seem like a scarf guy.”

“I’m full of surprises,” Steve replied, slightly stiff.

Bruce smiled in a soft, pacifying manner before taking his and Peter’s plates to the sink. Steve deflated a little.

“Sorry,” he said to Bruce as the three of the headed to the elevator. 

Bruce waved off the sentiment. “I’m pretty sure that’s my line here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments are appreciated!
> 
> I promised a happy ending, and a happy ending I shall deliver. However, things tend to get worse before they get better. Maybe bring tissues for the next chapter? To make up for it, here's a blushing Peter:
> 
>  


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virtual tissues will be provided, but you also might need some real ones. Oops?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this gets heavy. Bucky isn't suicidal, but he's not in the best place, either. If you have concerns, please let me know in the comments and I can give you a better summary. Hugs!
> 
> There's a chunk of dialogue in Spanish at the beginning of the chapter; it has hyperlinks, just hover your mouse to see the translation. If you're on mobile, the translation is also in the end notes. Click here to see it. Feel free to correct anything! I took classes for several years in school, but my Spanish is still quite poor.

Peter was attentive enough during first period, but his worry grew worse as the day drew on. He’d forgotten to ask when they were doing the tests on Bucky… would he be home in time? Were they already doing them? Had they finished already? Did they know the results? What if it was bad news?

Peter internally slapped himself. It wasn’t going to be _good_ news, Bruce had said as much. He felt that he should expect the worst, but how could he? It would be like giving up. He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to massage the headache from his temples.

“ _Peter_ ,” Ned hissed, poking his side.

Peter lifted his head fast enough to get whiplash. “Yeah?”

Ned gave a little nod to the front of the class, where Señor Alcaldo was standing, eyebrows raised.

“ _La respuesta?_ ”

“Um… _Puedes repetir la pregunta, por favor?_ ”

Señor Alcaldo gave Peter a disappointed look. “ _Debes prestar atención en clase. Lo sabes._ ”

Peter’s cheeks burned. He looked at his desk. “ _Sí, Señor Alcaldo. Lo siento._ ”

“It’s not Peter’s fault!” Ned protested. The entire class turned to look at him; Señor Alcaldo frowned.

“ _En español por favor._ ”

“It’s fine, Ned,” Peter murmured urgently. “Just leave it.”

“You fight injustice on the streets, I fight injustice in the classroom,” Ned whispered to him. Then louder, “ _No es… culpa? De Peter,_.”

“ _¿Sí? Por qué no?_ ” asked Señor Alcaldo.

Ned opened his mouth, then closed it, visibly forming sentences in his head. “ _Él está triste porque su amigo está... herido. Eso es muy malo._ ”

“ _¿Sí? Lo siento, Peter, pero aún debes prestar atención. Lo entiendes?_ ”

“ _Entiendo,_ ” Peter said quietly. 

Ned looked like he might protest more, but Peter gave him a tap with his foot. 

“ _Voy a repetir la pregunta. ¿Cuál es el mejor lugar para ir cuando hay un terremoto?_

“ _Debajo de una mesa. O en una ... puerta._ ”

“ _Bueno._ ” Señor Alcaldo turned away, and Peter exhaled. He wanted to wring his hands, but it would draw attention to him. Instead, he put on his best attentive face and let Señor Alcaldo’s voice flow over his head like a river.

\----

When Peter got home, he took the elevator straight to the medbay, hurrying down the hall and dodging around one nurse before another caught his arm.

“You can’t go in yet,” she said apologetically. “They’re still testing, and the equipment’s sensitive.”

Peter’s shoulders drooped.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “They’ll be done in about half an hour.”

Peter checked the time on his phone. “Okay,” he said. “Thanks.”

The nurse smiled at him as he turned, heading back down the hall. He stepped into the elevator and tapped his foot as it ascended.

“Which floor, Mr. Parker?” JARVIS asked politely.

“Um…” Peter scrubbed a hand through his blue hair. “I don’t know.”

He expected to be taken to the common floor or maybe to his room, but the elevator came to a stop at Tony’s workshop. The door slid open, and Peter was greeted with the familiar scent of fried wires and oil. Classic rock was booming at a level that hurt his ears; JARVIS turned it down, catching Tony’s attention.

“Hey, kiddo,” Tony said, wiping the grease from his hands and striding over. “Doing okay?”

Peter shrugged, and Tony pulled him in for a one-armed hug turned hair-tussle. 

“Got homework?”

“Yeah.” Peter made a little face at the thought. 

Tony noticed and waved a hand. “Screw that. Want to do some real work instead?”

“Yeah,” Peter said again, relieved.

Tony nodded, heading over to a bench and scooping up a folder, managing to get grease all over it despite having cleaned his hands. He didn’t seem to notice.

“This has all the schematics and plans for Barnes’s braces. The first page has the measurements you did the other day; I need you to start building with holograms. I showed you how to use the program I created, didn’t I? Yeah, I did. Go ahead, go crazy.”

Peter dropped his backpack and took the folder. “Thanks.”

“Sure. Music, JARVIS.”

“Music at your usual levels is detrimental to Mr. Parker’s enhanced hearing,” JARVIS interjected. “I’ve told you this before, sir.”

“Right you are. How ‘bout this, I’ll pick the music, you pick the volume, Petey. Sound good?”

Peter nodded. “Sorry.”

“Are you really apologizing for your ears?”

“I…” Peter looked sheepish, and Tony lifted the corner of his mouth.

“It’s no problem. Probably good for me, so I don’t go deaf in the next ten years.”

Peter managed a wisp of laughter, opening the folder and laying it out on one of the tables by the wall. A manipulatable screen flickered on in front of him, and he took a moment to admire the technology before getting to work. 

“You can pull up Rhodey’s if you want a reference,” Tony said. “They should be filed under _Chicky Chick_. He wanted to stick around, help out, but they called him down to DC for some emergency consultation.”

“ _Chicky Chick_?” Peter repeated, lips twitching.

Tony waved a hand. “Rhode Island Red is a type of chicken.”

Peter laughed for real.

“Hey, don’t judge me. I came up with it on zero hours of sleep and five cups of coffee during our freshman year of college.”

“You’ve known Rhodey for that long?”

“I’ve known Rhodey for a lot longer than you’ve been alive, Pete-O.”

Peter bit his lip in a smile, pulling up the file labeled _Chicky Chick_ with a flick of his finger. He studied the design carefully, then began to build, using Bucky’s measurements and Tony’s schematics for reference. He got so absorbed in his work that the music faded away and he lost time; his mind was blissfully anxiety-free. 

Carbon fiber with metal rods for support, complex hinge-type joints at the sides of the knees, lengthening capabilities for range of motion at the hips… the neural connections, he’d leave to Bruce. But the mechanics were satisfyingly mind-numbing. He started on them after he finished the general plan; he got through finalizing the flexors in the ankles before someone tapped his back and he spun around, jumping so high he could’ve made it onto the table. Dum-E made an apologetic series of clicks, scooting back, and Peter exhaled, adrenaline flooding from him like a wave.

“Barnes’s tests are done,” Tony said, voice muffled by several screws he was holding between his teeth. “Bruce just called in. You were pretty focused there, I don’t think you heard.”

“I didn’t,” said Peter, his nerves jumping. “Did he say…”

Tony took the screws out of his mouth and swiveled in his seat to face Peter, looking unnaturally somber. “It doesn’t look good. They think his healing factor is at its limit, here.”

Peter swallowed hard, his hand drifting up towards his mouth before he forced it back down to his side. Something metal closed around it, and he looked down to find Dum-E gripping his hand awkwardly. He let out a shaky breath and Tony stood up, striding over and squeezing his shoulders.

“I’m sorry, Peter.”

Peter wiped at his face with the hand that Dum-E wasn’t holding. “Can… can I go see him?”

“Yeah. Go ahead, kiddo.”

Peter pressed his lips together to keep them from trembling. Tony drew him into a strong hug, close enough that Peter could feel the Arc Reactor beneath his shirt. Tony rested his chin on the top of Peter’s head for a brief moment before releasing him so that he could go. 

For all he wanted to move, Peter felt frozen; Tony placed a hand on his back and led him to the elevator, providing the momentum he lacked. Tony didn’t leave him, instead rubbing little circles on his back with his thumb as the elevator took them down to the medbay. 

When the doors opened, the first thing Peter heard was Steve shouting. He flinched, and Tony’s arm snaked around him. A nurse scurried out of Bucky’s room, pale and close to tears. Tony gritted his teeth, looking pained.

“Stay here a second,” he told Peter before striding down the hall towards Steve’s voice. Peter followed, stopping two meters from the doorway.

“- _wrong_ , he’s getting better! You said… He has to-”

“Steve,” Peter heard Tony say.

“He’s been through so much, and now-”

“Rogers,” said Tony, a little more forcefully.

“-you’re telling me it’s getting _worse?_ It can’t… You have to fix him. You have to-”

“ _Cap_ ,” Tony snapped. “Stand _down_.”

Steve’s voice cut off, and the silence rang so loudly in Peter’s ears that he almost missed Bucky speak.

“Stevie.” Bucky cleared his throat. “Look. I’m broke, and they can’t fix me.”

“Buck.” Steve’s voice cracked wretchedly. 

Bucky’s voice was soft when he spoke again. “I’m broke. For good this time. You know what they do to broken horses, Stevie?”

“Buck, no.”

“I ain’t getting better. Put me down, Steve. It’s kinder that way.”

“ _No!_ ” Steve’s voice was loud enough that Peter clapped his hands over his ears. “You don’t get to say that. You can’t… You… I can’t lose you again.”

“Steve-”

“Okay, no,” Tony interrupted. “I hate saying this, but I’m taking Cap’s side. You know Dum-E, Barnes?”

Bucky must’ve replied affirmative, because Tony continued.

“He’s broken so many times I can’t even count. Did I ever scrap him? No, I didn’t. Because I fucking love him, and if you tell anyone I said that, I’ll throw you down the garbage chute. You get me, Barnes? You understand?”

“I-”

“And you can’t just fucking ask Steve to euthanize you, Jesus Christ. Do you know how horrible that sounds? Do you know what it would do to Peter to hear you say that? Are you looking at Steve’s face right now? Look at him, Barnes, and tell me if that’s fair to him.”

“It-”

“It isn’t. End of fucking story. Would you do it? If Steve asked, would you do it?”

The pause felt like eternity before Bucky spoke, almost in a whisper. “No.”

“Exactly. Now both of you pull yourselves together, and I’m going to go get Peter. Who, by the way, would be devastated if he had the misfortune of being here for this conversation. Jesus H. Christ on a stick.”

Peter didn’t process the fact that he should probably move so Tony wouldn’t find out he was eavesdropping; Tony turned out into the hall and came to a stop at the sight of him. He lifted a hand and pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a long sigh.

“You heard that, didn’t you.”

Peter nodded, his eyes welling. Tony let out a stream of choice words, a few of which weren’t in English.

“Peter?” Bucky called, and Peter scooted into the doorway, sniffling. 

Bucky’s eyes were red; tears were streaming down Steve’s cheeks. Bucky lifted the hand that Steve wasn’t holding, his metal one, and Peter stumbled forward, gripping on to it like it was the only thing keeping him from falling from a building.

“Please don’t go. Please don’t go. I don’t want you to go,” he whispered. “Please.”

Bucky looked like he’d been slapped in the face. He took in Peter’s desolate expression, then looked up at Steve, whose entire body was shaking.

“Do you get it now, Barnes?” Tony asked from the doorway.

Slowly, Bucky nodded.

“Good. I’ll leave you to deal with the mess you made, then. Excuse me while I go apologize to that poor nurse that Steve reduced to tears.”

Steve looked utterly stricken. “I… I didn’t mean-”

“God, your face. She’ll be fine. Just apologize yourself later, she’ll understand.” With that, Tony disappeared down the hall, leaving Peter perched on the bed on Bucky’s left and Steve in a chair on the right. Steve hid his face behind a huge hand, his shoulders hunching and trembling, making him look far smaller than he was. He forced down a sob; it caught in his throat and he choked on it.

“Hey,” Bucky murmured. 

Steve drew in an uneven breath, then let it out. “What are we gonna _do_ , Buck?”

“I dunno, Stevie.” The smile that Bucky tried to form came out twisted. Peter’s heart dropped; Bucky couldn’t give up.

“I. Um. I’m working on the braces,” he choked out. “Like Rhodey’s. So you can walk. I know it’s… It’s not… But it’s something.”

Bucky closed his eyes for a moment; when he reopened them, they were sad, but warm. “Thank you, Peter. I’m real grateful.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter whispered, and Bucky pulled him under his arm, burying his face in Peter’s blue hair.

“It was worth it,” he replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Feel free to scream at me in the comments. Many apologies. On a somewhat happier note, this series has reached 300 pages in google docs! Let's aim for 400!
> 
>   
> The translated conversation in Spanish:
> 
> "The answer?"
> 
> "Can you repeat the question, please?"
> 
> "You must pay attention in class. You know this."
> 
> "Yes, Mr. Alcaldo. I'm sorry."
> 
> “It’s not Peter’s fault!” Ned protested.
> 
> "In Spanish, please."
> 
> "It isn’t Peter’s… fault?"
> 
> "Yes? Why not?"
> 
> "He is sad because his friend is... injured. It is very bad."
> 
> "Yes? I'm sorry, Peter, but you must still pay attention. Do you understand?"
> 
> "I understand."
> 
> "I will repeat the question. Where is the best place to go when there is an earthquake?"
> 
> "Under a table. Or in a... doorway."
> 
> "Good."


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam Wilson is our lord and savior. He possesses the magical ability to communicate emotions in conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: suicide is referenced briefly in an interventional manner

Peter woke up disoriented the next morning. He wasn’t in his bed; there was no natural lighting to tell him the time of day… Was he still in the Tower? Had something happened? His muscles tensed, and he felt a hand on his arm.

“Peter.”

That was Bucky’s voice. He was in Bucky’s room in the medbay. Everything was fine. Except… it wasn’t. It really wasn’t.

“Peter?” Bucky repeated, more worried.

Peter tilted his head to look up at Bucky, an awkward angle from beneath Bucky’s arm. Peter caught a glimpse of blond hair, which he guessed was Steve’s head resting on Bucky’s chest.

“What time is it?” he asked quietly.

“Half past nine.”

“In the morning?” 

Anxiety bubbled in Peter’s stomach, and he sat up.

“Yes. Pepper said you don’t have to go to school today.”

Peter wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He appreciated it; sure, he wouldn’t have been able to focus much if he went. But he hated being treated like he was fragile. Even if he was, a little bit, though he’d never admit it. And he didn’t like missing class too often. Bucky, ever-watchful, noticed the conflict on his face.

“Ned and MJ are bringing your work later.”

“Alright,” Peter said, conceding.

Steve stirred on Bucky’s chest, squinting his eyes open and closing them again. He made a noise, muffled by Bucky’s shirt.

“Stevie,” said Bucky, and Steve lifted his head.

“Yeah?” He sounded hoarse.

“Remember Snow White.”

Steve rubbed his eyes, looking half-asleep and confused. “The old picture?”

“The animated one. With the Dwarfs.”

“Yeah, you used t’ call me Sneezy and I’d slug you in the stomach. How come?”

“You’re Sleepy.”

“I’m exhausted,” Steve mumbled, and planted his face back into Bucky’s chest. Bucky’s lips twitched up into a smile, and he smoothed his hand over the back of Steve’s head.

“Go back to bed, Sleepy.”

It seemed to take about thirty seconds for Steve to realize where he was and why; he promptly sat upright so fast that Peter flinched away from the movement.

“Jesus, Steve. Don’t give Peter a heart attack.”

Steve looked contrite. “Sorry.”

Peter managed a crooked half-smile. “S’okay.”

Steve shifted his gaze to Bucky, utterly forlorn and woebegone.

“If you keep making that face, it’s gonna stick like that, pal,” Bucky told him.

Steve didn’t even look offended, a true testament to how miserable he was feeling. He wrung his hands. “I hate this, Buck. You’re… and there’s nothing I can _do_. I can’t fix it. I can’t fucking fix it.”

“Language,” Bucky chided, and Steve fixed him with a glare. “You want something to do, pass me that bag over there.”

Steve dutifully got up and brought Bucky a familiar canvas bag. Bucky extricated a bundle of knitting needles and several balls of yarn, passing a set of needles to Steve, who stared at them dumbly.

“What are you giving me these for?”

“To stab someone.”

Steve looked appalled.

“Pal. It was a joke. They’re knitting needles, what do you think I want you to do with them.”

“You want me to… knit?”

Bucky lifted his metal arm from around Peter and flicked Steve between the eyes. “I’m pretty sure there’s a brain in there somewhere.”

Steve stared at him. “I don’t…”

“You know how to knit. Your ma taught you.”

“No!” Steve burst out, frustrated. “I don’t know how you’re… you’re making jokes! Last night, you wanted me to… to… and now you’re pretending it didn’t happen!”

Bucky pressed his mouth into a line. “Okay. Let’s talk.”

Steve opened his mouth, then closed it, waving a hand.

“That ain’t talking, Steve.”

“Like you’re any better at it!”

Bucky sighed. “We need flying Sam.”

“We should be able to get through one conversation on our own. We’re adults,” Steve said stubbornly.

“You wanna start, then.”

Steve didn’t reply.

“Yeah. So we need Sam.”

Steve buried his face in his hands.

“Building JARVIS,” said Bucky. “Can you call Sam.”

“Audio or video call?” JARVIS asked politely.

“Audio,” Bucky replied.

The sound of dialing filled the room, and then ringing. Sam picked up after about ten seconds.

“Hello?”

“Flying Sam. We need help.”

Sam sighed. “What have the two of you done now?”

“We need to talk. But Steve won’t start and I can’t.”

“Alright. Well, will one of you tell me what happened, or am I gonna have to do detective work?”

“Last night,” Bucky said, then stopped. “Last night they did more tests.”

“Okay,” said Sam. “I’m going to hazard a guess and say that they didn’t go so well.”

Bucky didn’t reply.

“So they didn’t go so well. I’m sorry, man. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“That’s not it!” Steve exclaimed. “That’s not… He said he was broken, and he asked me to… to _put him down_ like a fucking animal, Sam!”

Sam was silent for a moment. “Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh_ ,” Steve said shortly. “And now he’s acting like everything’s fine.”

“Well,” Sam started, then let out a long sigh. “Okay, gimme a minute to think about this one. Jesus, you two don’t do things in halves, do you?”

There was a long pause. Peter burrowed further beneath Bucky’s metal arm, ignoring the discomfort of the plates against his head.

“Alright,” Sam finally said. “How about we start by telling me how exactly the tests went.”

“They said… the nerve damage isn’t getting better like they hoped it would,” answered Steve. “The bones healed and the muscles work, but he can’t… they don’t think he’ll walk. On his own.”

“Okay. I’m sorry, Barnes. That’s rough. Can you tell me how that turned into asking Steve what you did?”

Bucky pressed his lips together like there was a bitter taste in his mouth before he spoke. “I can’t. Do my job anymore. Useless shit goes to the scrapyard. Horses with broken legs get put outta their misery.”

“Barnes, are you a danger to yourself right now?” Sam asked bluntly.

Steve made a sound like he was in pain. Bucky huffed out a breath.

“I’m a danger to everyone,” he replied.

“You know what I mean.”

The five seconds it took Bucky to reply felt like the longest in Peter’s life.

“No,” Bucky said, and Steve’s shoulders wilted with relief. “But there ain’t a point to me being around. I’m just taking up space.”

“I’m going to disagree with you there,” said Sam. “I think you do a lot more than take up space. You mean a whole damn lot to Steve. He was miserable before you showed up again. I can count the number of genuine laughs he gave me on one hand. Do you want him to go back to that space?”

Bucky gritted his teeth. “No.”

“From what I’ve seen, Peter spends a whole lot of time with you. He cares a lot about you. He’s lost enough, hasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sensing there’s a but here.”

“But I failed. My mission.” Bucky let out a breath through his nose. “I can’t protect them.”

“Barnes,” Sam said gently. “There’s more to it than that.”

“What do you mean.”

“You might not be able to walk right now, but you can do plenty without walking. You can still cook, you can keep an eye on Steve in the gym, you can help Peter with his homework, and _if you ask first_ , you can bug them. Also, you can visit Katie at the coffee bar. You can beat Clint at Mario Kart. You can learn something new, like computer coding or playing the goddamn violin. There’s plenty for you to do.”

Bucky didn’t speak, and the only sound in the room was an odd clacking noise. Peter craned his neck to find Steve knitting furiously, his face hard-lined and taut; he didn’t look up.

“You get me, Barnes? I know it seems like this is it, but there’s a whole world out there, and it’s yours. Poke your head out, look around a little.” Sam paused. “Barnes, can you promise me to stay safe?”

“Yes,” Bucky said quietly.

“And to tell someone if you’re not feeling safe?”

“Yes,” Bucky repeated, stiff but true.

“Good. I appreciate that, Barnes. You hanging in there, Steve?”

“I’m fine,” Steve replied resolutely.

Peter could imagine Sam shaking his head.

“Sure you are. Talk to someone about this, would you? Call me later, or take Natasha out for dinner, or go bother Hill or Pepper; I’m sure they’re looking for excuses to get away from corporate bullshit for a little while. Okay?”

“I’m fine,” Steve said again, but Bucky glared at him and he relented. “Okay.”

“Great. Either of you got anything else to say?”

Bucky seemed to have used up his allotment of words, and Steve shook his head.

“That’s it. Thanks, Sam. Sorry to bother you.”

“Bother me.” Sam snorted. “Bullshit. I like talking with you two, even if it’s fixing your problems.”

“Sorry,” Steve repeated.

“You’re impossible. Well, alrighty then. I’m going to go. Are you two gonna be good?”

Steve’s affirmative response was incredibly halfhearted. 

“Okay, I’ll restate that. You might not be good right now, but you will be. Hang in there.”

“Thanks, Sam.” 

“No problem, man. Hey, why don’t you call those old folks of yours? It might be nice to see them.”

Steve made a noise like a pained laugh. “I didn’t even think of that. We’ll give them a call.”

“Good. You remember what I said, both of you.”

“We will. Bye, Sam.”

“Bye, Steve. Bye, Barnes. Have a good one. Relatively, anyway.”

The line cut off, and all Peter could hear was the beeping of machines and the clicking of Steve’s knitting needles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments are appreciated! <3
> 
> And so begins the slow process of emotional recovery. (Because that's what's really important, here.)
> 
> Have a hopeful, flowery Bucko:
> 
> Side note: unfortunately, I won't have much art to post anymore, because the resources I had to make it were temporary. I'll still be able to do line art digitally, but no color and not as high-quality.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Olds, also some youngs.

Esther, Lidia, and Ollie showed up an hour later, around eleven. Esther brought Eleanor, who managed to soften the lines in Bucky’s face. Lidia brought _sernik_ , which was delicious. Ollie brought a deck of cards; he promptly challenged Steve to a game, which might’ve been a mistake on his part. Peter had no idea that Steve was good at cards. Steve wasn’t smiling by the end, but it was better than the pinched-up expression he’d held earlier.

“Who was knitting?” Esther asked, picking up Steve’s tight-stitched beginning of a scarf. “Jimmy, did you do this?”

Bucky shook his head. “My knitting’s over there. That was Steve.”

“Just when you thought he couldn’t get any better,” Lidia said, and Steve’s face went pink.

“My ma taught me. I was sick a lot, might as well have been doing something useful. I used to knit socks to give to the poor. And then to the Army.”

Esther reached up and patted Steve’s cheek fondly. “Such a good boy.”

“He’s not a dog,” Ollie said, lips twitching, and Esther gave him a glare.

“It’s a figure of speech, Oliver.” She gripped the knitting needles properly and continued Steve’s work; the quick click-click-clicking was like gentle music to Peter. 

“Ollie,” said Bucky. 

Ollie looked up brightly. “What is it, Jim?”

“Do you like darts.”

“Darts? I was never much good, but they’re fun. How come?”

Bucky reached over and scooped up a small box, flipping it open to show Ollie the dart set.

“Fancy,” Ollie said, eyes twinkling. “Are these magnets? Excellent, I won’t stab anyone by mistake.”

Bucky’s lips twitched. He silently passed Peter the target; Peter hung it up on the wall and gave them a thumbs-up.

As it turned out, Ollie really was terrible at darts. Only one out of the ten he threw ended up on the target, the others clattering to the floor. When Ollie moved to pick them up, Bucky pressed the little button on the corresponding bracelet; Ollie shrieked when the darts came flying back at them. Bucky caught them all deftly, huffing out something akin to a laugh.

“Oh, you try, then. If you’re so good,” Ollie told him, pouting.

Bucky hurled the first dart; it hit the center of the board dead-on with a resounding _clack_. He used the bracelet to call it back before throwing another, which hit exactly where the first one had been. This continued until Ollie threw up his hands.

“ _Well_ , then. I see how it is, Jimmy, you show-off.”

Bucky gave him a _who, me?_ expression so innocent that he burst out laughing, though it was more like wheezing.

“Can I try?” Lidia asked, and Bucky handed her the darts and bracelet in favor of scooping up his knitting. He watched as Lidia threw the darts; the first two fell short, but the others stuck to the board in varying proximities to the center. Ollie looked grudgingly impressed. Lidia was kind of a badass.

“What are you knitting, Jimmy?” Esther asked Bucky, nudging her glasses up on her nose and peering over into his lap.

“Hat. For Peter,” he replied. 

She smiled. “Navy blue. That’ll compliment his hair nicely.”

Bucky nodded, studying Peter with a tranquil expression that Peter hadn’t seen in what felt like forever. Steve noticed too; his face cycled from pain and relief to stoicism so quickly that Peter would’ve missed it if he blinked. Bucky shifted his gaze to Eleanor, who was perched on his shoulder, then to Esther’s brisk knitting.

“What are you doing,” he asked her. “It looks different.”

Esther followed his eyes down to her scarf, wrinkling her brow for a moment before brightening. “Ah! I’m doing knit-purl, knit-purl.”

“What is a purl.”

“I’ll show you, dear. Steve, would you move my chair a bit closer?” 

She moved to stand up, but Steve picked up the chair with her in it and shifted it closer to the bed. 

“Oh!” she laughed. “I forget how strong you are.”

Steve looked surprisingly happy about that; Peter wasn’t quite sure why. Wouldn’t Steve want people to see him as strong? Peter pursed his lips, thinking hard. A few minutes later, when he had failed to come up with an answer, Esther placed a hand on his shoulder and offered him her knitting needles.

“Would you like to learn?” she asked him.

“Oh, I… I don’t want to take your…”

“Don’t you worry. Jimmy has plenty of extra yarn and needles. It’s easier to learn on something that’s already been started, anyway.”

“Alright,” Peter said tentatively. He let Esther place the needles in his hands; he held them like they were fragile as baby birds. He watched as she picked up another set of needles and magically made the first row of stitches appear; she moved closer so he could see better.

“Ready, dear? Just watch for now. You take the right needle and poke it through the loop so it sits behind the left one, and then you take the yarn and wrap it right around the back, see? And you tuck it between the two, and then the right needle goes on top of the yarn through the left loop again, and you move it off the left needle. I’ll do a few more, and then you can try, alright?”

Peter nodded, watching intently as Esther demonstrated the steps again. He could feel Bucky’s soft gaze on them; out of the corner of his eye it looked like Bucky was smiling.

“Why don’t you give it a try?” Esther said.

“Okay,” he replied, determined. He poked his right needle behind the left one and started to wrap the yarn around.

“Other way, dear,” said Esther, and he reversed the yarn. “Very good.”

He nibbled on his lip as he shifted the right needle; everything was going well until he went to slide the stitch off and ended up dropping several. He froze. It was ruined.

“It’s alright,” Esther said, patting his shoulder. “Happens to the best of us, really.”

She took the needles from his hand and deftly fished the stitches back into place, then handed them back to Peter.

“I don’t know if I should… I don’t want to mess up Steve’s scarf.”

“It adds character,” Steve told him, and Esther smiled.

“That’s right. Don’t you worry, Peter. Try, try, try again.”

\----

Ned and MJ arrived not too long after school let out; the Olds had gone back to Brooklyn, but Bucky, Steve, and Peter were still clumped together, knitting quietly. Bucky was covered in excess cat hair, which seemed to stick to his metal arm like a cloud of burrs. He tensed up when Ned poked his head through the doorway, but relaxed when he recognized who it was. MJ followed, pulling the door shut behind them.

“Hi Peter, hi Bucky! Hi, Mr. Captain Sir!” Ned exclaimed.

Steve huffed out a small laugh. “Steve is fine.”

Ned beamed. “Hi, Steve!”

MJ ambled over, sitting down in a chair by the foot of the bed and tucking her legs beneath her. She plopped a stack of papers on the edge of the bed next to Peter.

“Congratulations, you have a five-page math packet to complete by tomorrow. You also have a worksheet on Watergate, which we spent the entire class on today. Oh, and your English teacher assigned an essay due next week. And Ned has your Spanish homework.”

“Oh, right…” Ned dug his way through his backpack, fishing around with his tongue poking out of his mouth. “It’s somewhere in here… Ah, here it is! It’s on reflexive verbs. Have fun!”

“I’m so excited,” Peter deadpanned, then, genuinely, “Thanks, guys.”

“No problem, man!” Ned said. “I can give you all the gossip, too, if you want.”

“You’re not cool enough to have gossip,” MJ told him.

“Well… I mean, yeah, not usually. But one of Payton Douglas’s asshole friends got suspended! It was great!”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Payton Douglas.”

“Oh, yeah, he’s the worst. A few weeks ago, he dropped his lunch tray on me, but it was chili day so I got a full bowl of chili all over me and some of it went down my shirt and it was terrible. But MJ booby-trapped his locker and defended my honor! Totally badass.”

Steve made a noise somewhere between appalled and offended on Ned’s behalf. Bucky had his murder face on.

“It’s fine, really!” Ned assured them. “I just wore my gym clothes for the rest of the day.”

Neither man looked particularly comforted.

“Why was he suspended?” Peter asked curiously.

“For trying to steal a school computer. His name’s… uh… Jerry? Perry? Gary?”

“Perry Nordell,” MJ supplied. “It’s not even a fun story. He tried to put it in his bag and the teacher saw him.”

“Sounds about right,” Peter said, smiling a little. The door cracked open, and Natasha slipped in.

“Ned. MJ.”

“Hi!” Ned squeaked. MJ rolled her eyes at his excitement.

“Hill and I were going to spar. Want to join?” asked Natasha. MJ looked surprised for a brief moment, then nodded cooly. 

“See ya, losers,” she said, getting to her feet and giving Peter a pat on the head before following Natasha into the hall. Ned watched her go.

“Is it bad that I really want to see that?” he asked.

“No,” Bucky replied.

“Field trip?” Ned said hopefully.

“Field trip,” Bucky agreed, shifting as if to get up, but pressing his lips together when his bottom half didn’t move. He let out a sharp breath and looked away from Steve’s sad eyes.

“Do you have… Oh, there’s a wheelchair! I’ll get it,” Ned said, standing up and tugging a wheelchair from the corner of the room to Bucky’s bedside. “Mr. Ameri- Steve is probably gonna have to help you up, though. I could probably lift Peter, but you’re, like, twice his size.”

With a short nod from Bucky, Steve lifted him from the bed into the chair, as cautious and gentle as if he was carrying glass. Bucky’s face was entirely unreadable, which wasn’t usually good. Steve began to push the wheelchair, but Bucky glowered up at him so venomously that he stepped back, hands up.

“I can do it myself,” Bucky muttered, reaching down and wheeling himself towards the door. He came to a stop in front of it, teeth gritted, looking like he had half the mind to ram it open.

“I can get it!” Ned chirped, sidling in front of him and pushing the door wide enough for him to exit.

Bucky grunted in thanks; Steve looked relieved. The four of them made their way down the hall to the elevators; the silence was heavy, and when Ned started chattering about Star Wars, Peter was more than happy to join in. As the elevator descended, Bucky’s shoulders loosened. His eyes were less bitter when the door slid open to the gym. The four of them headed towards the mats, where Natasha, Hill, and MJ were stretching and talking amicably. Hill waved, smiling; Ned returned the gesture happily.

“Want to spar?” she called to him.

He gestured to himself in disbelief. “Me?”

“No, the kid behind you.”

Ned turned and found nobody.

“Yeah, you! C’mon.”

Ned looked over to Peter. “Is she going to kill me?”

Peter tried not to snort. “No. But you might get some bruises.”

Ned considered this, then made a ‘oh, fuck it’ face and made his way onto the mats.

“Hill,” Bucky said; she raised an eyebrow. “Be careful with him.”

Hill grinned. “Don’t worry, Barnes. He’ll be fine.”

Bucky pursed his lips, but watched as Hill led Ned through some basic stretches. Natasha and MJ had moved on to light sparring, pulling their punches and blocking delicately. Steve fidgeted a bit, looking a bit restless. 

“Go ahead,” Bucky said, voice flat. He motioned towards the mats. “You two shouldn’t have to sit and watch.”

Steve seemed conflicted; Bucky was entirely expressionless. They both looked to Peter.

“I think I’ll stay here,” said Peter, taking a seat beside Bucky’s wheelchair. He didn’t think he was imagining the subtle relief in Bucky’s eyes.

“Me too,” Steve said immediately, mirroring Peter. They all turned their attention to the four on the mats.

“Have you ever tried martial arts?” Hill was asking Ned, who shook his head. 

On the next mat over, Natasha and MJ started putting more energy into their punches. MJ threw the first kick; Natasha dodged it effortlessly and offered one in return. Ned watched them, looking dubious.

“You’re not expecting me to do that, are you? I’m not that flexible.”

“Not right now, you aren’t. It’s just practice. We’ll start with your stance. You want your feet a shoulder width apart, right underneath you. Good, just like that. Shoulders back, don’t slouch.”

Peter watched contently as Hill taught Ned the basics and MJ and Natasha swirled around their mat in a flurry of well-placed limbs.

“It’s like they’re dancing,” he commented, and Steve nodded.

“She used to dance,” Bucky murmured after a long moment, sounding faraway. Neither Peter nor Steve had the heart to ask about it.

\----

After nearly half an hour, Natasha and MJ had worked up a decent sweat, and Ned had gotten a solid foundation to learn on. Hill patted his shoulder, smiling at him.

“Nice work.”

Ned waited until she turned to get her water bottle to grin at Peter and bounce on the balls of his feet.

“I did karate!” he mouthed. “With an _Avenger_!”

Peter gave him a solid thumbs-up. MJ and Natasha began cooling down, talking technique and practicality. MJ picked up her phone from where it sat next to her water bottle and frowned a little.

“I’ve gotta go. I promised to be home before dinner.”

“Need a ride?” Natasha asked.

MJ shook her head. “It’s just a few blocks.”

“I’ll walk with you,” Natasha said decisively. “It’ll be dark soon. Ned, do you have a ride?”

“Yeah, my dad’s picking me up,” Ned replied.

“Good. We’ll head to the lobby together.” Natasha started for the elevators; MJ and Ned fell into step behind her.

“Bye, Peter!” Ned called. MJ offered a quirk of her lips and a half-assed salute.

“Thanks for bringing my homework!” Peter replied, getting to his feet and waving as his friends disappeared into the left elevator. 

“C’mon,” Bucky said, wheeling himself towards the right elevator. “Now you have to do the work.”

Peter groaned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who remembers _sernik_ from [The Doctor's Appointment](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13873011?view_full_work=true)? It's Lidia's specialty!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Comments are appreciated!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here, have some relative fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations are hyperlinked (hover mouse to see them) and in the end notes for those on mobile!

Over the next week, Peter found himself in Tony’s workshop nearly every evening, working on Bucky’s braces. He wanted them to be _good_ , not just functional. Bucky deserved better than functional. 

“How goes it, Petey-Pie?” Tony asked, sidling over and scratching his chin as he looked at Peter’s design on the hologram. “Hey, that’s looking neat.”

“Thanks,” Peter said, pink-cheeked. “I think it’s going good. I mean, you’d know better then me.”

Tony waved a hand. “Don’t underestimate yourself. I like what you did with the knee joints.”

Peter’s blush deepened, and he shrugged. “I mean… It’s nothing special, just…”

“I’ve never seen them magnetized like that. I think you’re on to something here.”

Peter fiddled with the hem of his shirt, looking down at the table. Tony flicked his shoulder gently.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Nothing,” Peter said quickly. 

Tony took him by the shoulders, turning him so they were facing each other, and raised his eyebrows.

“It’s just…” Peter hesitated. “What if they don’t work?”

“They’ll work. Have some faith in your brain. I’ll check it over before we build, but I doubt I’ll catch anything big.”

“No… Not like that. What if they don’t… What if they’re not right?” Peter looked up with wide eyes, imploring Tony to understand.

“You mean what if he doesn’t like them?”

Peter nodded.

“Peter, you could give him solid plaster casts and crutches and he’d like them. You could bedazzle the hell out of the things and he’d think they were great.”

Peter pinched his lips together, and Tony sighed.

“Kid. He’s seen Rhodey’s braces; he knows what to expect. You’ll deliver.”

“But what if he doesn’t _like_ them?” Peter whispered.

Tony rubbed his forehead. “God, I suck at emotions. Okay, if he doesn’t like them, it’s not your problem. You’re doing your damn best, you’re making something that a whole lot of people would kill to have, and once we’ve fitted and adjusted them, that’s that. If he’s not happy with them, then that’s something he has to work through. You get what I mean? JARVIS, did that make sense? I can’t tell.”

“Perhaps a slightly crude explanation, but the sentiment was there, Sir,” JARVIS replied. “Mr. Parker, to clarify, you are doing everything to the best of your ability. Any improvements that can be made will be made, which will yield an excellent product. If Sergeant Barnes is unhappy, it will not be caused by anything you have control over, far more likely by the situation he is in. Do you understand?”

Peter scrubbed a hand through his blue hair, which was slowly fading. After a moment, he nodded. Tony looked at him with rare, serious eyes.

“I know it’s easy to blame yourself. Just remember I’m proud of you, Peter. Really proud.”

Peter ducked his head, his mouth curving into a small smile. 

“Dinner is ready,” JARVIS told them. “I believe Ms. Romanova and Sergeant Barnes have prepared beef stroganoff and vinegret.”

Tony made an interested noise. “Yum. Assassin food. C’mon Petey-Pie, dinner time.”

Peter closed his 3D hologram and followed Tony to the elevator, which took them upstairs to the common floor. Everyone was already there except Hill and Steve, the former of whom Peter knew was in DC. It was odd, he thought, that Steve was missing.

“Where’s our dearest Ice Cube?” Tony asked, plopping into his seat, voicing Peter’s deliberation. 

Everyone looked to Bucky.

“Brooklyn,” was all Bucky offered.

“With the cool old people,” Clint added.

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “How did you know that.”

“Why else would he be in Brooklyn?”

Bucky nodded minutely, conceding the point. “Ollie’s faucet broke.”

“Why didn’t he call a plumber?” Tony asked. 

“They ain’t made of money,” Bucky replied, bristling a little.

Tony said something in response, but his mouth was full. He swallowed, then, “This is the best beef stroganoff I’ve ever had.”

Bucky didn’t seem to know what to say to that, caught between glowering and something softer.

“Thanks,” Natasha said for him. “It was experimental. We’ll have to write down the recipe.”

“What the hell, you guys just _made_ this? Who even are you?”

“We’ve been lying to you for years. We’re secretly Iron Chef masters.”

“Stop it, Nat, you’re going to give him an existential crisis,” Bruce said resignedly. “Last time he had an existential crisis, I couldn’t go down to the labs for three days because he gave Dum-E and Butterfingers permission to do whatever they wanted with a blender and a set of knives.”

“Why would you do that?” Clint looked horrified.

“Clint,” Pepper said. “You tried arming the vacuum cleaners.”

Clint waved a hand. “That was different. Dum-E and Butterfingers could _actually_ kill someone.”

“And a Dirt Devil with katanas couldn’t?”

“Nobody got hurt!” Clint exclaimed; Pepper gave him a severe look. “Okay, nobody but me got hurt!”

Peter swallowed a laugh, making a choking noise that had everyone looking at him in concern. Pepper patted his back gently.

“Did something go down the wrong pipe?” she asked, looking sympathetic. He shook his head, taking a gulp of water.

“I just can’t believe this is my life,” he said. 

“Armed vacuum cleaners, robotic lab assistants with kitchen utensils, or both?” asked Natasha.

“Both,” Peter replied, taking his first bite of vinegret. “Mm, this is good.”

Bucky looked pleased beneath his stony facade.

“How was school, Peter?” Pepper asked.

“Good,” Peter replied. “Nothing special.”

“Nothing at all?” asked Clint.

“We started watching a documentary on media in the 70s, I guess that was interesting. Everyone’s kind of ignoring the fact that finals are coming up.”

“Gross,” Tony said. Clint snorted.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll do great,” said Bruce, patting Peter’s shoulder. “You’re a smart kid.”

“That, I agree with,” Tony conceded. “You should poke your head out of your hidey-hole, Brucie; come see what Peter’s doing with the braces he’s designing for Barnes. He definitely inherited my brains.”

Peter ducked his head, peeking at Bucky out of the corner of his eye. The man’s face was inscrutable, his brow low and his lips pressed ever-so-slightly together.

“How about you, Barnes? How was your day?” Pepper asked kindly.

Bucky started a little, lifting his gaze from the table. He cleared his throat. “Fine.”

“He’s been thinking about something,” said Natasha in a conversational manner. “He hasn’t told me what it is yet.”

Bucky glared at her.

“Don’t fight each other,” Tony said. “As much as I’d love to see that, it’s dinnertime.”

Bucky huffed out a breath, leaning back in his chair. He parted his lips as if to speak, and everyone waited patiently. Clint helped himself to another serving of beef stroganoff. 

“I think. I might try therapy. For real.”

“That’s great, Barnes!” Pepper said earnestly. “Do you need recommendations?”

Bucky nodded.

“I’ll pull up my list right after dinner. I’m proud of you.”

Bucky softened, if just a little bit. He glanced cautiously over to Peter.

“I go to therapy sometimes,” Peter said. “I can tell you about it, if you want.”

Bucky nodded again. For a moment, Peter saw relief in his eyes.

“Я горжусь тобой,” Natasha murmured to Bucky. His mouth hinted slightly at a smile.

“Have you told Steve?” Pepper asked, and Bucky shook his head no.

“ _Are_ you going to tell Steve?” asked Tony. “You probably should. I mean, he’ll know something’s up, and then he’ll come down to the workshop and look at me with those sad goddamn puppy eyes until I tell him things.”

“It’s effective, you’ve gotta give him that,” Clint said.

“Yeah, because it makes you feel like you’ve killed a baby or something! It’s unnerving!”

“Back to the subject,” said Pepper. “I think he’ll be really happy for you, Barnes. Maybe it’ll even convince him to give it a try.”

“Yeah, if anyone could use some therapy, it’s probably Steve,” Tony agreed. “Hey, don’t look at me like that, Nat. I’m not a hypocrite, I _go_ to therapy.”

“Yes, because you never lock yourself in your workshop to avoid it,” Bruce said, and Tony clutched his chest dramatically.

“You wound me so, Brucie.”

 

\----

 

After dinner, Peter headed with Bucky to the elevator, which took them to Steve and Bucky’s apartment. The doctors had given up on keeping Bucky in the medbay; he seemed happier not being cooped up in a windowless room, which Peter could certainly understand. Steve’s mood seemed better, too.

“I didn’t know you went to therapy,” Bucky said quietly, parking his wheelchair next to the couch as Peter sat down. 

Peter shrugged. “Yeah. Not, like, every week, but yeah. It kinda helps. And I don’t have to talk about serious stuff the whole time, either. Sometimes I just talk about my week or about school.”

Bucky looked curious in a guarded way.

“It’s sort of nice,” Peter continued when Bucky didn’t say anything. “They just listen. And they have cool fidget toys.”

“Fidget toys.”

“Yeah, like magnet-y things and blobby stuff and squishies.”

Bucky looked utterly confused, and Peter pushed down the urge to laugh at his expression.

“They’re just things you can play with to keep your hands busy. I think you’d like them.”

“Hm.” 

“It’s like knitting, but less productive?”

“Then why would you do it.”

“Because some people aren’t good at knitting,” Peter replied, smiling crookedly.

Bucky grabbed his knitting from the coffee table, setting it in his lap. He then passed Peter the scarf that Esther had been teaching him on.

“Practice,” Bucky told him. “You’ll get better.”

Peter picked up the needles, wincing as the loops almost slid off.

“Unless you don’t want to,” Bucky said, sounding slightly uneasy.

“It’s fun,” Peter assured him. “I just don’t want to mess it up.”

The lines in Bucky’s face softened. “You improve by making mistakes. Don’t be afraid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Я горжусь тобой- I'm proud of you.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading; comments are appreciated!
> 
> These next few weeks will be heckin' busy for me, but I'll do my best to keep updating consistently! Thank you all for being patient with me. Hugs!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guess what time it is? Therapy time.

It seemed like an average evening; Bucky was working on his second knit hat of the day, glancing over at Peter’s homework every now and then to watch his progress. Steve was dozing in and out of wakefulness on the couch, and the TV was playing cartoons in the background. Bucky cleared his throat and Steve jolted up with a start, wide-eyed. 

“What? What’s going on?”

Bucky’s lips twitched, and he looked at Steve fondly before his face slid back to seriousness. 

“I have therapy now.”

“What?” Steve asked, confused.

Bucky set his knitting needles in his lap. “Therapy, pal.”

Steve blinked. “Are you serious?”

Bucky squinted at Steve. “Are you going to be an asshole about it. Because flying Sam would not approve.”

“No, no,” Steve said quickly. “I… just… I wasn’t expecting that. I’m really proud of you, Buck. You’re really going to therapy?”

“No. I was joking.”

Steve seemed to be trying not to let his face fall. “Oh.”

Bucky quirked his lips up. “Double joke. Yes, I’m going to therapy.”

Steve brightened again. “That’s really great! What time? Where?”

Bucky glanced at the clock. “Three point two minutes. Here.”

“Oh! Should Peter and I leave? We can go up to the common floor…”

Bucky hesitated before inclining his head slightly, but when Steve moved to get up, Bucky snagged his sleeve.

“Not yet.”

Steve settled back down, offering Bucky his hand. Bucky laced their fingers together carefully; some of the tension left his shoulders. When the door buzzer rang, the plates in his metal arm shifted and his grip on Steve tightened.

“I’ll get it,” Peter offered, and Steve nodded gratefully.

Peter closed his math textbook and got to his feet, straightening his shirt and hurrying across the room to open the door. Behind it stood a woman about Peter’s height; she had warm eyes and wavy black hair that framed her face. She smiled compassionately at him and held out her hand.

“I’m Kalpana Lal. I’m here to see Mr. Barnes?”

Peter shook her hand carefully. “I’m Peter. Bucky’s right over there.” 

He stepped to the side so she could come in, closing the door behind her. When he glanced to Bucky, the man looked frozen, gripping Steve’s hand hard enough that anyone else’s bones would’ve cracked. Steve stood up without pulling his hand out of Bucky’s grasp. 

“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” he said. “I’m Steve.”

She gave him a warm, friendly look. “Please, call me Kalpana. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

And then, to Peter’s surprise, she sat down on the floor, settling cross-legged on the soft carpet, near Bucky but not too close. Bucky looked faintly startled to be looking down at her; he let his fingers slither from Steve’s and his hand fell to his lap with a plop. She regarded him kindly, but not with enough scrutiny to be deemed threatening.

“It’s good to meet you in person, Mr. Barnes. I’m Kalpana.”

Bucky was silent for nearly thirty seconds before he spoke, very quietly. “Bucky.”

“Bucky,” Kalpana corrected herself. “Would you like Steve and Peter to stay, or go somewhere else?”

Bucky glanced over to Steve.

“We said we’d go to the common floor,” Steve said. “Is that still what you want, Buck?”

Bucky seemed to weigh his options again, studying Kalpana with sharp eyes before returning his gaze to Steve and Peter. Slowly, he nodded. Steve reached down and squeezed his shoulder. 

“We’ll be right upstairs. Remember, I’m real proud of you for doing this.”

Bucky softened slightly; his eyes shifted to Peter, who gave him an encouraging look. Steve headed for the door, and Peter followed.

“See you in an hour, Buck,” Steve called.

“Bye,” Peter said, waving as he stepped out into the hall. 

He pulled the door shut behind them and hurried after Steve; they waited for an elevator, which took them up to the common floor. Steve seemed restless as they settled onto the couch, buzzing with anxious energy. Peter pulled out his math homework and glanced over at Steve.

“Can you help me with this?” he asked, and Steve looked stupidly relieved to have something to do.

“What are you having trouble with?”

“Oh, um…” Peter hadn’t thought that part through; it was really quite easy for him. He pointed to a problem at random. “This one.”

“Alright.” Steve squinted down at the textbook. “Wow, I don’t think I’ve even seen this before. I’m not sure I can…”

“Maybe you can help me review the chapter? I think I’ll be able to figure out the problem if I go through the examples again.”

“Sure, sounds good.” 

Steve watched as Peter flipped back through the pages, smoothing them out at the start of the chapter.

“Polar coordinates,” Steve read. “Each point in the polar coordinate system is determined by a distance from a reference point and an angle from a reference direction, often the origin. The radial coordinate is often denoted by _r_ , and the angular coordinate is specified as theta.” Steve looked up. “I don’t know, Peter. This is like another language to me. Are you sure you don’t want to ask Tony?”

“Tony’s probably busy,” Peter said. “If you don’t want to do this, you totally don’t have to, though.”

“No, no, I don’t mind,” Steve replied. “Let’s go through the first example.”

 

\----

 

An hour later, Steve and Peter headed back to the elevator; Steve was clearly anxious about what state they’d find Bucky in. He hesitated outside the door long enough that Peter stepped around him and pushed it open; he found Bucky sitting quietly on the couch, knitting needles clicking in a gentle rhythm. Kalpana sat opposite him in a comfy chair, her expression a mix of warm and pensive. She cut off what she was saying at the sight of Peter.

“Looks like out time’s up for today,” she said. “Would you like to meet again next week?”

Bucky nodded.

“Same time?”

“Yes.” He paused. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” she said, standing up and making her way to the door, where Steve was still standing. He didn’t step out of the way; his eyes were stuck on Bucky, who made a sharp motion with his hand.

“Move. You lump.”

Steve startled, nearly tripping over his feet in haste to let Kalpana leave. “Sorry! Sorry.”

Kalpana seemed to be trying not to laugh as she headed out into the hall. “I’ll see you next week, Bucky. Nice to meet the three of you.”

Peter watched her go, then turned to Bucky, who seemed to brace himself for imminent interrogation.

“Did you start a new scarf?” Peter asked in lieu of the questions that Bucky was probably expecting.

Bucky relaxed a little. “Yes. It’s for flying Sam.”

“Cool! I like the color.” Peter set down his math textbook with a plop and settled next to Bucky on the couch.

“Did you do your homework.”

“Yeah, Steve helped,” Peter answered.

Bucky peered down at the textbook, lifted an eyebrow, then looked up at Steve. “With math.”

“Yep,” Peter said; Bucky’s eyes flashed with understanding, then gratitude. 

“Who knew you had the brains for math, Stevie.”

“Hey,” Steve said, faintly offended for a moment. The distraction didn’t last long. He put his hands in his pockets, then removed them, rocking onto the balls of his feet and back while shooting Bucky little glances.

Bucky managed to ignore him for about two minutes before sticking his knitting needles through his ball of yarn with a bit more force than necessary and meeting Steve’s eyes.

“Jesus Christ. Just ask.”

Steve opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. “Did… Um… How was it?”

Bucky let out a little huff. “Chicken.”

Steve did a visible mental flail. “Well, I… I didn’t want to-”

“It was fine,” Bucky interrupted. “Kalpana is nice. Like flying Sam. I talked. Some.”

“That’s… I’m really proud of you, Buck.”

“You’ve said.” Bucky sounded wry.

Steve did another little brain-flail. “Jerk,” he said weakly.

“Punk.” Bucky’s reply was almost automatic. Then, “Sit down. You look like a dumbass.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this is from Peter's perspective, we don't actually get to see much therapizing. There will be a brief recap in the next chapter, though!
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading! Comments are appreciated!
> 
> As I mentioned in the last chapter, updates might slow down a bit in the next couple weeks; it doesn't look like I'll have much time to write. Thanks for bearing with me!


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The struggle is vaguely real.

The next day, Peter slipped down to Steve and Bucky’s apartment before he left for school. He found Steve asleep on the couch and tiptoed past so as not to wake him, freezing when one of the floorboards creaked under him. He continued after a moment, peering around for Bucky. He heard a squeaking noise in the kitchen and strode over to see Bucky swiveling his wheelchair away, turning his back to Peter.

“Bucky?” Peter said quietly, taking a step forward.

Bucky’s shoulders tightened.

“Are you okay?” Peter asked, worried.

Bucky balled up his hands and then visibly forced himself to relax them.

“Fine,” he gritted out.

Peter didn’t really know what to do with that. “Are you… Um… Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Bucky snapped.

Peter stepped back, slightly hurt. Bucky had never been sharp with him before. He watched as tension radiated through Bucky’s body, then suddenly drained as Bucky let out a long, shaky breath. He lifted his hands to his face; Peter could see the flesh one shaking from where he stood. 

Bucky whispered something that sounded like “Shit,” and slowly turned his wheelchair to face Peter. His face was pale and his eyes were wide and damp; guilt was etched into the lines on his forehead.

“I’m sorry. Peter, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Peter said slowly, his concern growing. 

Bucky shook his head. “It’s not.”

“You didn’t mean to. Don’t worry about it,” Peter told him in earnest.

Bucky lowered his head, letting his hair fall into his face. “It’s not okay.”

“I don’t…” Peter trailed off helplessly. “Will you tell me what’s wrong?”

Bucky let out a harsh sound that might’ve supposed to have been a laugh. “I can’t. Reach the cereal.”

“Oh… Do you want me to…?” Peter made his way forward, scooting past Bucky and reaching up into the cabinet to hand him the cereal. 

“Thanks,” Bucky said grudgingly, tight-faced. He blew out a breath, then poured some cereal into the bowl that was sitting in his lap. He set the box on the counter. “Don’t tell Steve.”

“Okay,” Peter said, slightly hesitant.

“He’ll be mad at himself. For forgetting to leave it where I can reach.”

Peter nodded slowly, watching as Bucky wheeled over to the fridge and pulled out the milk, pouring some into the cereal. He grabbed a spoon from a drawer by the sink and shoveled a bite into his mouth, chewing forcefully. He met Peter’s big, sorrowful eyes.

“Please don’t,” he said, quiet. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Peter tried to school his face to impassive, but he didn’t have the same talent for it that Bucky did. Instead, he looked away. “I’m sorry.”

Bucky shook his head. “Don’t apologize. Just. I can’t… I don’t want pity. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter said again, for lack of a better response.

“You’re fine.” Bucky lifted a hand, gesturing towards the couch where Steve slept. “But he does it. All the damn time. If he’s gonna tell me I ain’t broken, he’s gotta stop looking at me like it.”

“Have you… Have you told him that?” asked Peter.

Bucky’s lips twisted. “We ain’t real good at talking. Don’t know if you’ve noticed.”

Peter considered this. “Maybe you could have JARVIS play back this conversation for him?”

Bucky set down his spoon, studying Peter carefully. “You’re real smart. Jesus.”

Peter’s cheeks turned their usual shade of pink.

“You are,” Bucky told him. “I didn’t think of that.”

Peter shuffled his feet, bad with compliments as usual.

“My apologies to interrupt,” JARVIS said, “But you should hurry upstairs so that you have time for breakfast, Mr. Parker.”

Peter made a face.

“I’m sorry. For earlier,” said Bucky.

“Really, it’s fine,” Peter replied. “It happens.”

Bucky didn’t look any less guilty.

“Want to come eat breakfast upstairs with me?”

Bucky contemplated it, then nodded carefully. “Building JARVIS. Tell Steve where I am if he wakes up.”

“Certainly,” JARVIS said.

Peter headed towards the door; Bucky set his cereal in his lap and followed, but paused in the living room.

“Can you hold this. I need to get something.”

Peter took the bowl of cereal and waited as Bucky wheeled off down the hall. On the couch, Steve slept on. Bucky returned with a bag in his lap; he made his way out the door, which Peter closed behind them. The elevator was already there for them, taking them to the common floor, where Hill was waiting with a plate of pop-tarts. Peter’s face lit up at the sight of them.

“There you are,” Hill said. “Hurry and eat, we only have five minutes.”

Peter sat down and began shoveling pop-tarts into his mouth at an incredibly rapid pace.

“When I said hurry, I didn’t mean _that_ ,” Hill told him. “You’re going to choke.”

“Nuh uh,” Peter replied, mouth full.

“Maybe not, but you’re giving Barnes a heart attack. Poor guy.”

Peter turned to look at Bucky, who seemed to be radiating anxiety and disapproval in his direction.

“Thorry,” he said, contrite.

Bucky gave him a halfhearted glare, then took an excessively slow bite of his cereal.

“What’ve you got there?” Hill asked him, pointing to the bag in his lap.

Bucky took his time chewing and swallowing before he answered. “Present. For Peter.”

“Really?” Peter asked.

Bucky shrugged. “Ain’t very useful this time of year, but…” he trailed off in favor of passing the bag to Peter, who inhaled the last pop tart and took the bag eagerly.

Peter reached inside and felt something soft; he pulled out a carefully-knitted scarf in a blue slightly darker than his hair had been. The pattern was intricate, more so than most of the other knitwear he’d seen Bucky working on.

“Thank you, it’s awesome!” he exclaimed. He wrapped it proudly around his neck, burrowing into the wool. Hill reached out to examine one of the ends, nodding in approval.

“It’s well-made,” she said.

Bucky’s lips twitched towards a smile. “There’s more.”

Peter reached back into the bag and pulled out a matching hat, complete with a huge pom-pom on top. He grinned, squishing the pom-pom gently before tugging the hat over his head.

“Thanks! I love it!” 

“You’re welcome.”

Peter leaned over and hugged Bucky briefly. Bucky looked startled, then content. Hill smiled, picking up Peter’s empty plate and depositing it in the sink.

“Time to head to school,” she said. “Are you coming or staying here, Barnes?”

Bucky pressed his lips together, mouth twisting. “Am I allowed to leave,” he asked, sounding slightly bitter.

“Of course,” Hill replied, businesslike. 

Surprise flashed through Bucky’s eyes before he settled his expression into something more impassive. “Okay.”

“Great. Peter, where’s your backpack?”

Peter looked around wildly. “Crap, um…”

“We’ll stop by your room on the way down.” Hill seemed amused.

“I need a shirt with long sleeves,” said Bucky.

“I have one of yours in my room, I can grab it for you,” Peter offered. “I think you lent it to me last month and I forgot to give it back… sorry about that.”

“Is it the camouflage one.”

Peter nodded. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry. I have more than one shirt.”

Hill laughed a little. “I don’t know if that’s funnier because you actually used to only have one or two shirts, or because if you _did_ only have one shirt, you’d be shirtless right now.”

“This shirt could be Steve’s,” Bucky pointed out as they headed for the elevators.

“It could be,” Hill agreed. “But Nat and Pepper and I bought it for you, so it isn’t.”

Bucky let out a little huff, and Peter covered up a giggle with his new scarf. The doors opened, and Peter darted off to grab his bag and Bucky’s shirt. He was back in less than a minute, skidding into the elevator with his backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Wear that properly,” Hill told him. “It’s bad for your back. You could get scoliosis.”

“Actually… I don’t think I can?” Peter replied. “I don’t really know.”

“Still,” Hill said. “Two straps. I don’t care if one strap is cooler.”

“It’s not that! One strap is just easier,” Peter replied. 

“Two straps,” Bucky insisted.

Peter sighed and handed Bucky his camouflage shirt before tugging the second strap over his shoulder. Hill patted his hat-covered head in approval, giving the pom-pom a squish. Bucky pulled the shirt on, getting his arm plates stuck in the sleeve for a moment; he glared at Hill and Peter as if daring them to try to help as he wiggled the fabric free. When neither of them did, he looked relieved, straightening the shirt over his frame.

“Are you going to overheat?” Hill asked. “It’s getting warmer out. Spring might actually be here.”

Bucky shrugged, indifferent. “Doesn’t matter.”  
“Just don’t get heatstroke,” Peter said. “I had that once, and it sucked.”

“Peter.” Bucky gave him a significant look.

“What?”

“You’re wearing a hat and scarf. Take those off, it’s too hot.”

“No, I like them!”

Bucky looked both flattered and exasperated. “I don’t want you to get too hot.”

“You’re wearing a long-sleeved shirt,” Peter pointed out.

“That’s different. I have to.”

“And I _want_ to wear my new hat and scarf,” Peter said insistently. 

Bucky pressed his fingers to the spot between his eyebrows. “You’re impossible. Like Steve.”

Peter grinned, proud of himself.

“And they’re both too cute to be mad at,” Hill said fondly.

The elevator doors opened to the lobby, and the three of them headed across to the front doors and out onto the sidewalk. Peter walked beside Bucky in his wheelchair; Hill followed close behind them. Bucky seemed to be glad that she had his back.

“How did therapy go yesterday, Barnes?” Hill asked.

“Fine.” Bucky took a pause. “Didn’t get to much. We talked about what we’re going to talk about.”

“That’s usually how therapy starts out,” said Hill. “Setting goals, all that fun stuff.”

Bucky inclined his head. “It’s hard.”

“Yeah. It is. I’d say the best place to start is acceptance. Accepting where you’re at, finding healthy coping mechanisms, and working on self-discovery.”

Peter looked over at Hill thoughtfully. “That’s actually really good advice.”

Hill smiled a little. “Thanks, Pete. I try. Did that help, Barnes?”

“Yes.”

“I’m glad to hear it. We can talk about something else now; your eyebrows are at Titanic danger levels of sinking into oblivion.”

Bucky looked vaguely affronted and slightly confused. “Should I be offended.”

Peter covered a laugh, which seemed to answer Bucky’s question.

“So what class do you have first?” Hill asked Peter.

“Today? Uhh… History. We’re talking about President Ford and President Carter and the ‘70s.”

“The Me Decade, huh? Down with communitarianism?”

“I can’t believe Ford pardoned Nixon! I mean, I can, ‘cause it happened, but like… wow,” Peter said.

“Did you know that Bill Clinton pardoned his own brother?” Hill asked.

“Wait, is that even allowed?”

“Yes, technically.”

“Huh,” said Peter.

“You probably won’t learn about it. It’s somewhat obscure, just a fun fact.”

“Do we like Bill Clinton,” asked Bucky.

“I think some people have mixed feelings,” Hill replied. “I’ll tell you about him on the way back, and you can decide for yourself.”

Bucky nodded. A couple men in business suits passed them, glancing not-so-subtly at Bucky in his wheelchair, then giving Peter funny looks for the hat and scarf. Bucky’s shoulders drew up, and Peter scooted to walk a little closer to him. Hill’s eyes narrowed at the two men’s retreating backs.

“Thank god Steve ain’t here,” Bucky muttered.

“How come?” asked Hill.

“He’d ‘ve had some words for them.”

“Not going to lie, I would’ve liked to see that,” Hill commented.

Bucky tilted his head back to glare at her; she blinked innocently.

“Don’t you dare tell him,” he warned.

“Why not?”

“They didn’t do nothin’. You’d just worry him.”

Hill shrugged. “Alright.”

The three of them waited for the walk signal before crossing the street to Peter’s school. Kids were milling about outside; more than a few of them stared at Peter’s attire and Bucky’s chair. Flash, luckily, was nowhere to be seen. Peter suspected he wouldn’t be quick to cause trouble in front of Bucky and Hill, anyway. 

“Is that Ned over there?” Hill asked, squinting through the crowd of teenagers, then waving when Ned caught a glimpse of her. His face lit up and he wove his way over, dragging MJ behind him.

“Hi, Ms. Hill! Hi, Bucky! What’s up, Peter?”

“Not much, you?” Peter replied.

“Guess what guess what!” Ned was bouncing energetically on the balls of his feet.

“What?” Peter asked, a smile growing on his face. Ned’s excitement was contagious.

“I’m getting a puppy! My parents are finally letting me get a puppy! I’m so excited!!!!!” He flailed his arms, almost hitting MJ in the face. Bucky’s lips twitched.

“That’s awesome, dude!” Peter exclaimed. “When?”

“In the next week or so! Oh man, I can’t wait!!”

MJ seemed to be trying hard to look bored, but her eyes twinkled at Ned’s elation. Hill offered him a high-five, which he accepted enthusiastically. 

“You’ll have to bring the puppy by the tower,” she said. “Be careful, though. I’m sure Tony will try to weaponize his collar.”

“That would be sick!” Ned grinned.

“And possibly as dangerous as that time he gave his lab bots kitchen knives,” Hill replied. “Sounded great in theory, but didn’t go over so well.”

“I guess,” Ned conceded. “But I’ll still come over, don’t worry!”

“Good. Avoid Tony and your puppy will be fine.”

The bell rang, and all the students startles bustling towards the doors. Peter, MJ, and Ned lingered a little, Peter fiddling with the pom-pom on his hat. Bucky waved them on.

“Go. Don’t be late.”

“Yessir!” Ned chirped, climbing the concrete steps towards the front entrance. Peter and MJ followed; Peter gave Hill and Bucky a small wave over his shoulder. Bucky smiled a little in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your patience! I've been busier than ever the past few days, and that'll continue for about a week, so bear with me! After that, I should have plenty of time to write, so things should speed up (hopefully). Also, if anyone has advice on getting more sleep, I'd appreciate it. (Yes, I go to bed early- my brain just won't turn off for hours...)
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments are appreciated! <3


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky pays Tony and Peter a visit in the workshop.

That evening, Peter went down to Tony’s shop to work on the braces as soon as he was done with his homework, a fairly normal course of action. What wasn’t normal, however, was that Bucky followed him. When the elevator doors opened and the bots caught sight of Bucky, they abandoned Tony, rocketing over hastily and chirping little greeting sounds. Bucky’s mouth curled into a genuine smile.

“Get back here!” Tony called. “I need my- Oh, hi, Barnes.”

“Stark,” Bucky returned, his face snapping back to inscrutable.

“What brings you here, Olaf?”

Bucky looked at Tony blankly.

“Olaf? From Frozen? I could’ve sworn I showed you that. No, that might’ve been Steve. No, I think it was you… Whatever. You’re probably just fucking with me. What’s crackin’, [paleolith](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paleolith)?”

Bucky flexed his metal arm in response, and Tony’s face lit up like holiday lights. He put down the fuse board he was holding and made grabby hands.

“Mine mine mine! You just made my day. Get your ass over here.”

Bucky sighed, wheeling his way over to Tony’s workbench.

“Can I scan it?” Tony asked courteously.

Bucky nodded, and Tony was off again.

“JARVIS, scans, please! Dum-E, I need the toolbox, you know which one. Bite-Size, gimme that can of oil. If you spill it, you have to clean it up… Motherf- I mean it, that better be cleaned up by the time I’m done here. Dum-E, I need a new can of oil. Bite-Size, at least have the decency to wipe your claw before you fondle Barnes. Okay, Barnes. What’s the problem?”

“The arm overheated this morning. Burned me through my shirt.”

“Were you doing anything weird? Wait, were you doing _things_? With Steve? Because if you were, please don’t tell me.”

“Don’t have my shirt on when I do things with Steve,” Bucky said seriously. 

Tony flailed a little. “Jesus, why did I ask? Aah, mental images. Oh, god, why.”

Bucky’s eyes curled in amusement. Tony covered his face with a hand. Peter tried very hard not to laugh and failed, letting out a little snicker. 

“Don’t encourage him,” Tony groaned. “Eugh. I’m going to try to forget about that. Back to the question, did you do anything out of the ordinary?”

“Went with Hill to take Peter to school.”

“That’s- Oh, did you pilot yourself?”

“Yes,” Bucky said stiffly.

“And were you wearing a thousand layers?”

“Two.”

“So a thousand. Yeah, that could cause overheating. JARVIS, what’s the verdict on the scans?”

“The limb is low on coolant, and there appears to be buildup in the internal forearm paneling, Sir,” JARVIS replied.

Tony clapped his hands. “Nothing major, then. Too bad. I was hoping for a challenge.”

Bucky looked faintly relieved. Tony got to work, tapping his foot to an unheard beat as he removed the external plates. Peter made his way over to watch, hopping up to sit on the counter beside the toolbox; he ended up handing Tony screwdrivers and holding screws. Bucky sat perfectly still, eyes trained on the wall across the room. His muscles were tense.

“How was school today, Petey-Pie?” Tony asked, breaking the silence.

Peter started to talk, and slowly, Bucky relaxed into the chatter. Bite-Size the bot hovered on his right side, grasping at his flesh hand with a clumsy claw. Bucky subtly gripped back; Tony seemed to have enough decency not to point it out. Gradually, Bucky began to glance around the room when he wasn’t gazing at Peter or Bite-Size, studying the surroundings with apparent curiosity. Peter figured the workshop must be kinda fascinating to someone who didn’t see it regularly.

By the time Tony was finishing up, the air was calm. Bite-Size seemed to be trying to cuddle Bucky, which Peter thought was adorable. The bot chirped and plucked at Bucky’s hair as if to tidy it, but made it messier instead. Bucky’s face was tranquil, and Tony seemed genuinely content. Peter didn’t want it to end.

“Alright, Barnes, you’re all set,” Tony said, sitting up straight and stretching out his back, which cracked loudly.

Bucky gave a short nod, turning his gaze on Tony. “Thanks.”

“Are you kidding? That was like Christmas. You can come down here, y’know. I don’t spray Barnes-repellent or anything.”

“Stark. You are Barnes-repellent.”

Tony pouted. “Now that’s just mean. I lied, get out of here.”

Bucky reached down to wheel himself towards the door.

“Wait, no, stick around. Keep Petey-Pie company while he works on your braces.”

Bucky looked over to Peter, whose expression turned ridiculously hopeful.

“Okay,” Bucky said, and Peter grinned.

“I’m almost done! Well, not almost, but I’m definitely more than halfway through! Really, it’s only so slow because we have to wait for parts. Some of them are being specially made ‘cause I couldn’t find anything that worked like I wanted them to.”

“The kiddo’s been working his ass off,” said Tony. “The final product’s going to be damn good.”

Bucky’s face went soft and hard at the same time. He didn’t seem to have any words, so Peter went and got two pairs of safety goggles and beckoned him over to the little workbench.

“I’m just soldering wires right now, so nothing too exciting. You really don’t have to stay if you don’t want to, but…”

“I said I’d stay. I like spending time with you. Even when Stark starts yapping.”

“Hey! I have a beautiful voice,” Tony said.

Peter slid on his safety goggles with a grin, plopping down onto his stool and handing Bucky the other pair. He then plugged in the soldering iron and set it down to wait for it to warm up.

“JARVIS, can you turn on ventilation, please?”

“Already done, Mr. Parker. Would you like the lights turned up, too?”

“Yes please, thanks!”

“Not a problem.”

The lights brightened and Peter sorted through his bin of solder wire, selecting a spool of [63/37](https://image.slidesharecdn.com/how-to-solder-v35-119275354252770-2/95/how-to-solder-v35-21-728.jpg?cb=1192728343). 

“I like this kind ‘cause it has less lead in it,” he told Bucky, who nodded, safety goggles wobbling. Peter giggled.

“Are you mocking me,” Bucky said; he sounded serious, but Peter knew better. He widened his eyes with faux horror. 

“I’d never!”

Bucky snorted, goggles wobbling dangerously. Peter carefully took them, tightening the strap before passing them back.

“There. They should fit now. Tony usually wears those, so I guess his head’s bigger than yours.”

“Not surprising,” Bucky said mirthfully.

Peter laughed long and hard at that; across the lab, Tony looked mildly offended.

“Rude, Ice Pop.”

“You can do better than Ice Pop.”

Tony threw his hands up. “I thought I wasn’t supposed to be mean to you. God, you confuse me.”

“You can be mean to me. As long as it’s funny.”

“But where’s the line? I have a feeling that it’s blurrier than Robin Thicke, and if I cross it, Pepper won’t talk to me for a week.”

“Building JARVIS, who is Robin Thicke,” asked Bucky.

“Robin Thicke is an American singer, songwriter, and record producer. One of the most popular songs in his repertoire is called _Blurred Lines_.”

Peter grinned, turning back to his workbench, where the soldering iron had heated up. He picked it up, grabbed the wire, and got to work. In the background, Tony and Bucky bantered; Tony took up far more airtime than Bucky, but Bucky’s quips were undeniably sharp. For the first time in many weeks, Peter thought that things really might turn out okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back? Back again? *removes Eminem mask* It's me!
> 
> Excuse my sleep-deprived sense of humor! I'm much less busy now, which is good news for this fic! Unfortunately, my inability to get enough sleep persists. I'll be able to write more and post more often, but I might not be quite on par for a little while longer, or at least until my brain decides to stop flailing anxiously in the middle of the night. Thanks to all who commented with sleep advice on the last chapter! It's definitely a work in progress.
> 
> Thank you all so much for bearing with me, and of course for reading! Comments are appreciated.
> 
> And guess what! Next chapter is the puppy chapter! :D


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the puppy chapter!

On Saturday morning, bright and early, Peter was awakened by the sound of his phone chiming. He grappled for it and clumsily accepted the call, nearly dropping it as he lifted it to his ear.

“H’lo?”

“PETER!!!!”

Peter actually did drop the phone, flinching at the sudden piercing volume. He could hear Ned babbling in excitement clearly on the other end despite his phone being lost in his tangle of blankets.

“TODAY!!!! Today is the day, dude! It’s PUPPY DAY!!! We got the supplies and did the paperwork and now it’s time!! I’m so excited!!! AHHHH!!!! Dude dude dude, can you come with me to the shelter?!!”

Peter fished his phone from the blankets, holding it far from his ringing ear. “Yeah, man, I’d love to, just one question… Why are you awake?”

“Because… puppies?!”

“Yeah, good point,” Peter said, grinning a little. “What time is it, anyway?”

“Nine!!” Ned replied energetically. “That’s not too early, is it? I was going to call you at eight, but my parents said that no reasonable kid our age is awake at eight on a Saturday.”

“Your parents are really smart,” said Peter. He yawned and ran his fingers through his hair, which was now a much lighter blue, slowly fading towards green.

“So can you come?? The shelter opens in an hour!! We can pick you up!”

“Hang on, let me ask… JARVIS, can you ask Pepper if I can go with Ned to pick up his puppy?”

“Certainly,” JARVIS said, then, after a brief pause, “You have permission, as long as you text Mrs. Potts to check in around noon.”

“Tell her I will! Thanks, JARVIS. Ned, I can go!”

Ned squeaked loudly. “Awesome!!! I’ll see you in about an hour!!”

“See you!”

The call ended, and Peter stretched haphazardly before stumbling out of bed. He ambled into the bathroom, brushing his teeth and then stepping into the shower. He exhaled under the warm, gentle spray; he just stood there for a minute before kicking into gear and washing himself. 

The bathroom mirror was opaque with steam when he hopped out of the shower and grabbed his towel; he opened the door to let in cool air. By the time he was done drying off, the mirror had cleared. He ran his fingers through his hair, neatening it, and headed off to find clothes. 

“JARVIS, what’s the weather?”

“Currently, it’s 63 degrees fahrenheit and sunny outside. The high will be 70 degrees. I’d recommend wearing a t-shirt and pants.”

“Thanks,” said Peter, slipping on underwear, then jeans; he dug around in his shirt drawer and selected a red one. “Is anyone awake?”

“Mrs. Potts, Ms. Hill, and Ms. Romanova are all awake and upstairs.”

Peter’s face brightened. “Cool.”

He slipped out of his room and headed for the elevator, fiddling absently with his belt loops as he was taken up to the common floor. 

“I hear you’re going on the puppy expedition,” Hill said as he trotted into the kitchen.

“Yeah!” Peter replied, grinning.

“Tell Ned congratulations for me,” said Pepper. “How exciting for him!”

“I will,” Peter assured her.

Natasha placed a bowl of oatmeal in his hands; he looked down at it in surprise.

“Thanks? Ah, hot!”

Natasha’s lips twitched up in a manner eerily similar to Bucky, and she ushered him over to the table to sit. He took a big bite of the oatmeal, making a content sound.

“Ever been to an animal shelter?” she asked him.

He shook his head no.

“You’ll love it. I take Clint sometimes when he’s having a bad day.”

“Is that where the picture of him covered in dogs came from?” Hill asked.

Natasha nodded. “He cried a little when we had to leave.”

Pepper clucked her tongue. “Poor Clint.”

“He has a dog-sized soft spot,” said Natasha. “It’s adorable.”

“I think Bucky likes dogs, too,” Peter said. “It’s an untested hypothesis. He definitely likes cats, as shown by Eleanor.”

“Ned has to bring his puppy by, then,” Hill replied. “Barnes could use more fluffy things in his life.”

“He really could,” Natasha agreed. “Him and Steve.”

Peter nodded in agreement, taking another bite of oatmeal. 

“We had a family dog growing up,” Pepper said, a fond expression on her face. “His name was Bixby.”

“Bixby. That’s cute,” said Hill. “I had a cat for a couple years named Fiona.”

“That’s a good name for a cat.” Pepper smiled.

“Do you have any pictures of her?” asked Peter.

Hill shook her head. “I only have a few pictures from when I was a kid.”

“I don’t have any,” Natasha said, nudging Hill’s arm in commiseration.

Hill laughed. “God, we’re depressing. Ignore us, Peter.”

\----

Just before ten, Peter’s phone buzzed; it was a text from Ned saying _WE’RE HERE!!!!_ followed by a litany of excited emojis. Peter bounced to his feet, letting Pepper kiss the top of his head before skidding towards the elevator.

“Don’t forget to text me around noon!” Pepper called. “Have fun!”

“Thanks, mom! See you later!” 

The elevator doors slid shut, and Peter shuffled his feet impatiently as he descended to the lobby. He darted to the front doors, barely pausing to wave to Tina, his favorite receptionist. Ned’s dad’s car was waiting out front, and he jumped into the back quickly.

“Hi, Mr. Leeds!”

Ned’s dad peered at him via the rearview mirror, smiling kindly. “You’re just as excited as Ned, I see.”

“Drive, Dad! Hurry!” Ned flailed his hands to emphasize the desired forward motion. “There’s a puppy waiting for us! Oh my god, I think I’m gonna die. Peter Peter Peter I’m finally getting a puppy!!! I still can’t believe it! Can you believe it? I can’t!!”

Peter laughed. “I’m so happy for you, dude! Everyone really wants you to bring the puppy by the Tower soon.”

“I will! As soon as she’s settled in!”

Peter held out his hand for a fist-bump, which Ned accepted a little too excitedly. He vibrated with pent-up energy the entire fifteen-minute drive to the shelter, bursting out of the car with Peter hot on his heels as soon as they arrived. Ned’s dad locked the car with an amused expression on his face and followed them, jogging a couple steps to keep up.

“Slow down, boys! The puppy won’t vanish if you’re a few seconds late.”

“Anything’s possible, Dad,” Ned said, pulling the door open and hurrying into the shelter. “Remember the aliens?”

Ned’s dad let out a fond sigh as his son bounded over to the front desk.

“Hi! I’m Ned Leeds and I’m here to pick up my puppy? I did all the paperwork and sent it to you!”

“Ned Leeds?” The receptionist clicked at her computer, studying something before looking up with a nod. “You’re all set. Morgan will take you back to get her.”

“Thank you so much!!” Ned squeaked, gripping Peter’s arm.

A young woman with a shirt that said _volunteer_ strode over, smiling. “I’m Morgan. Your pup’s down the hall this way. Have you thought of a name for her?”

“Either Quinn or Bailey! Probably Quinn. I think Quinn.”

“That’s a good name,” Morgan said approvingly. “Get ready for some noise- the pups bark a lot when we come in.”

Peter subtly covered his ears as they headed through the wide doors to the back, and was immediately glad he did. They were met with a cacophony of borks and yips that made his temples ache for a minute, but soon subsided as the dogs settled. Morgan stopped in front of one of the kennels, and Ned nearly tripped over his feet hurrying to catch up with her.

“Do you have a collar and leash for her?” Morgan asked.

“Yeah! It’s…” Ned spun around. “Oh _no_! Dad, I think-”

“Don’t worry, I brought them,” Ned’s dad said. He handed the collar and leash to Ned, who looked incredibly relieved.

“Thanks, Dad!”

Peter caught a glimpse of the collar and leash as Ned passed them to Morgan; the leash was adorned with different Avengers, but the collar was entirely Spider-Man print.

“Oh my god,” he said. “Did you…”

“I saw them on Instagram and I couldn’t resist!” Ned said, beaming.

Peter’s cheeks turned entirely pink, and Morgan gave them a strange look.

“It’s an inside joke,” Ned said quickly.

She nodded in understanding and passed the leash to Ned, who looked like he might actually pass out from joy.

“Hi, Quinn!! You’re definitely a Quinn. Oh my god. Peter. Peter. _I have a puppy!!!_ ”

“Congrats, dude!” Peter said with a grin. 

Quinn let out a little yip; Ned scooped her up into his arms and let her cover his face in puppy-kisses. She then tried to eat his nose, and he laughed delightedly. Morgan smiled, leading them back down the hall and out into the reception area. Ned nearly walked into the door as they headed out to the car, too busy looking adoringly down at Quinn to watch where he was going.

“This is the best day of my life,” he said seriously, pressing a kiss to the top of Quinn’s head.

Ned’s dad patted his shoulder before heading around to the driver’s seat; Peter and Ned climbed into the back, Quinn in Ned’s lap. The boys cooed over her the whole ride back to Ned’s place, stopping to let her go to the bathroom before taking her inside. Peter decided that she was the cutest puppy he’d ever seen. Her eyes were like pools of caramel; her fur was a sleek brown spotted with patches of white. She’d probably be the size of a Staffy when she finished growing.

She was bouncing with energy, and the two of them took turns throwing toys for her and wrestling and playing tug-of-war for nearly an hour before she flopped onto her brand-new dog bed, exhausted. Peter’s cheeks hurt from smiling, and Ned was glowing with happiness.

Peter heard the front door open and Ned’s sister Grace skidded into the room, dressed in a soccer jersey with a ball under her arm. She squealed when she saw Quinn; Ned flailed his arms, shushing her.

“She’s sleeping!” Ned whispered urgently. “Don’t wake her up!”

“Oh my god she’s adorable! Can I hold her later? Pleeeaaase?” Grace batted her eyes.

“Alright,” said Ned, a mix of proud and slightly grudging. “How was your game?”

“We won! We totally crushed them. We went out for ice cream afterwards, too! Oh, hi Peter! What’s up?”

“Not much,” Peter replied good-naturedly. “Congratulations on winning your soccer game!”

Grace beamed. “Thanks!”

“Grace, go take a shower!” called Ned’s mother. “You’re covered in sweat and dirt!”

“Are you saying I smell bad?” Grace shot back.

“Yes,” Ned said, and Grace narrowed her eyes at him.

“Rude, Nedward.”

“Hey, I told you to stop calling me that,” Ned protested. “I _don’t_ look or sound like Squidward.”

“You do when you wake up in the morning!” Grace grinned.

“Well, maybe I won’t let you hold Quinn, then…”

“Sorry, sorry,” Grace said, retreating hastily.

“I don’t look like Squidward, do I?” Ned asked Peter, slightly despondent. 

“Nah, dude. I don’t see it,” Peter told him.

“She started watching Spongebob and now she won’t stop calling me that,” Ned sighed. “At least now I have leverage against her with Quinn!”

“True,” Peter said brightly.

Ned’s mom popped her head into the living room. “How is the puppy? What did you name her?”

“Quinn!” Ned replied. “She’s good! She fell asleep; I think we tired her out.”

“How sweet,” Ned’s mom said warmly. “What would the two of you like for lunch?”

Ned looked to Peter, who shrugged. 

“I’m not picky,” he said.

“How about egg salad and tuna sandwiches?” she asked. “You can have fruit to start.”

“That sounds good,” Peter replied tentatively. 

“Make sure you both wash your hands before you come to eat.”

“We will,” Peter and Ned chorused.

“Good,” Ned’s mom said, satisfied. “I’ll call you when the food is ready.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Leeds,” said Peter.

“Thanks, mom!” Ned echoed.

Ned’s mom smiled again and headed for the kitchen.

“Oh, right!” Peter said suddenly. “I have to call Pepper.”

“You don’t have to leave, do you?” asked Ned.

Peter shook his head. “Don’t worry. She just wants me to check in.”

“Ah, okay.”

Peter pulled out his phone and found Pepper’s number under ‘recents.’ He tapped it, lifting the phone to his ear. Pepper picked up after six rings.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” Peter said.

“Peter!” Pepper sounded happy to hear his voice. “Are you at Ned’s house?”

“Yep! We brought the puppy home and played with her, and now she’s sleeping,” said Peter.

Pepper clucked her tongue, making an ‘aww’ sound. “You’ll have to send me a picture. Are you planning on staying there for lunch?”

“Yeah, if that’s okay.”

“Of course,” Pepper said. “Just call when you need to be picked up, alright? And tell Ned hi from me.”

“I will!” Peter smiled. “Thanks!”

“I’ll see you later,” Pepper replied warmly. “Don’t forget that picture!”

“I won’t,” Peter reassured her before she said goodbye and ended the call.

“All good?” asked Ned.

“Yeah! She wants me to send her a picture of Quinn,” Peter said. “I think everyone really wants to meet her.”

“I’ll bring her by soon, I promise!”

Peter grinned, leaning over to take some pictures of a still-sleeping Quinn. Ned rested his chin on his hand.

“She’s just so cute,” he sighed.

“She really is,” Peter agreed. “I love her already.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments are appreciated!
> 
> My apologies; I didn't have the time to draw Quinn, so a picture will have to do instead! She looks similar to this:  
> 


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares suck.

On Monday morning, Peter jerked awake so early it was still dark outside, clawing at his throat. He choked on his first panicked breath, then his second before he managed to get a real lungful of air on his third try. He was shaking hard, still gasping; he couldn’t even remember what he’d been dreaming about.

“Mr. Parker, would you like me to wake up Mr. Stark? Or Mrs. Potts?” JARVIS asked, and Peter shook his head.

“Don’t wanna bother them,” he managed, his voice barely there. “S’ not that bad.”

“I believe they’ve said many times that they don’t mind,” JARVIS told him politely.

“It’s fine,” Peter murmured. “But thanks.”

“Your heart rate is still quite high,” JARVIS pointed out.

Peter rested a hand on his pounding chest, trying to calm his breaths.

“Sergeant Barnes and Captain Rogers are awake, if company tempts you,” JARVIS offered.

Peter stubbornly didn’t answer, holding in air until it burned, but relented after a minute with a nod. “Can you… Can you tell them I’m coming down?”

“I’d be happy to.” JARVIS sounded satisfied. If he wasn’t so helpful, Peter might resent him for always being right, but it was impossible to resent JARVIS.

Peter dragged himself out of bed, wrapping himself up in his blankets and leaning on the bedpost for a moment as his head spun. His breathing was still unsteady. He stumbled a bit as he headed out of his room and towards the elevator. It was already waiting for him, and he sank to the tiled floor as he descended to Steve and Bucky’s place. The door slid open after what felt like an hour and he staggered to his feet, shuffling towards the entrance to the apartment. Before he could knock, Steve unlocked the door and let him in.

“Bad night?” Steve asked, looking commiserative when Peter nodded. Peter noticed that he had deep, dark circles beneath his eyes.

He led Peter to the couch, where Bucky was looking intently focused on something he was writing. Peter sat down tentatively and Bucky’s head snapped up, face softening at the sight of Peter, who was still shivering a little. Bucky carefully wrapped his metal arm around Peter’s shoulders, tugging him closer before returning to his writing. Steve plopped down on Peter’s other side, leaving a respectful few inches between their elbows. He didn’t seem to want to make Peter feel trapped; Peter appreciated his thoughtfulness.

Peter glanced over at Bucky’s writing before realizing that it was probably private and he shouldn’t read it. Bucky seemed to notice, because the corners of his mouth twitched.

“Therapy homework.”

“You get therapy homework?” Peter asked; he couldn’t help but scrunch his nose a little.

Bucky let out a little huff. “When you’re as fucked up as me you do.”

Steve looked offended on Bucky’s behalf, and Bucky waved a hand to shut him up before he could say anything.

“I’m allowed to call myself fucked up. It’s only rude if someone else says it, pal. Calm down.”

Steve muttered something that sounded like “don’t tell me to calm down” and crossed his arms, looking vaguely grumpy and exhausted.

“What’s your therapy homework about?” Peter asked, then quickly added, “Like, not specifically, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, I just-”

“Negative thoughts go here,” said Bucky, tapping the left side of the paper. “Positive ones go here.” He gestured to the right.

Peter frowned a little; the left side of the page was nearly full, and the right only had a few rows of writing. He didn’t bring it up, though, in favor of nodding and inching a little closer into the warmth of Bucky’s side. Bucky scribbled something down on the right half of the page and tightened his arm around Peter’s shoulders before setting down his pencil and tucking the paper away. He glanced down at Peter carefully.

“Did you have a nightmare,” he asked.

Peter shuddered a little, remembering the feeling of asphyxiation that had woken him.

“You don’t have to talk about it. But if you want to. You can.”

“It’s fine,” Peter said quietly. “I don’t even know what it was about.”

Bucky made a small sound of understanding.

After a while, Peter asked, “Do you think they would stop if I went to therapy more often?”

Bucky’s face was unreadable. “I don’t think. they ever stop. Not really.” He paused. “But there might be less.”

“Are there less for you?” Peter sounded childishly hopeful.

Bucky’s mouth twisted. “No. But Kalpana says they get worse first, sometimes. Before they get better.”

“Oh. Is that why you’re…?”

“Awake.” Bucky let out a breath, peering over Peter’s head to look at Steve. Guilt flashed through his eyes for a moment before it was gone. “Stevie’s exhausted.”

Peter craned his neck to look over; Steve was out like a light, slumped uncomfortably forward.

“He ain’t gonna be happy tomorrow, sleeping like that,” Bucky muttered. “Idiot.”

“Will he wake up if I move him?” Peter asked.

“He usually would. But I don’t think now.”

Peter reached out and tugged at Steve until he sprawled sideways, his head falling against Peter’s side. Bucky grabbed a blanket from the armrest of the couch and handed it to Peter to spread over Steve. 

“Watch out. He’s an octopus,” Bucky said.

Sure enough, after a minute, Steve wiggled closer, throwing his arm around Peter’s middle and mumbling into his shirt. Bucky reached out and touched a lock of Steve’s hair, looking fond.

“Little punk.” There was a long pause and then he asked, “Can you pass my knitting.”

Peter nodded and leaned forward, trying not to jostle Steve as he scooped Bucky’s knitting off the coffee table and handed it over. Steve made a little noise and tightened his grip on Peter.

“I told you,” said Bucky. “Octopus.”

\----

Neither Bucky nor Peter slept for the rest of the night. Or morning, rather. It was only four hours until JARVIS politely notified Peter that he should get ready for school. The only problem was that Steve was still attached to Peter’s midsection.

“I don’t want to wake him up,” Peter told Bucky quietly.

“You have to. He won’t let go otherwise.”

“Really?”

“You can try.”

Peter scooted forward on the couch, trying to free himself from Steve’s grip, but Steve squeezed harder and mumbled something that sounded heartbreakingly like “no, please don’t go.” Peter looked over at Bucky with wide eyes.

“Can I just stay home?”

Bucky shook his head, reaching down and prodding Steve’s shoulder. “Wake up, you lump. It’s morning.”

Steve twitched a little, eyes fluttering. “Hmh.”

“Steve.” Bucky waited, but there was no response. “Stevie.”

“M’sleepin’,” Steve mumbled.

“Stevie. Punk.” Bucky poked Steve again to no avail and sighed, seemingly preparing to pull out the big guns. “ _Atten-tion!_ ”

Steve jerked up, flailing in attempt to get to his feet. He ended up on the floor with a loud thump; Peter covered his mouth to muffle a giggle.

“What was that for?” Steve asked petulantly. “You jerk.”

“Peter has to go to school.”

“You coulda asked nicely, y’know.”

“We tried. Didn’t work.” Bucky lips twitched a little. “Pity. Sorry, pal.”

Steve huffed a little and gave Bucky a halfhearted glare.

“Peter. Get ready for school,” said Bucky. “Steve’s taking you. Hill has an emergency briefing.”

“Alright,” Peter said, getting to his feet and making his way to the bathroom. 

He had a toothbrush and a towel in Steve and Bucky’s apartment; he wasn’t sure exactly when it had happened, but it made him feel warm in his chest, like he was welcome.

“You too, Stevie,” he heard Bucky say. “Get your ass up.”

Steve’s response was muffled, but sounded disagreeable nonetheless. Peter turned on the faucet; drowning out Bucky’s response. He washed his face and brushed his teeth briskly, then ran a comb through his hair and used the toilet. He scrunched his brow; he was forgetting something… Deodorant. He grabbed the stick that he kept next to Bucky and Steve’s and swiped it under his armpits. After a final check in the mirror, he ceded the bathroom to Steve and made his way back to the living room.

“You need clothes,” Bucky said.

Peter looked down; he was still in his pajamas. “Right.”

“You can go pick some. Doesn’t matter if they’re mine or Steve’s.”

“Thanks,” said Peter, smiling a bit as he headed down the hall to Steve and Bucky’s room.

It was somewhat messy inside; the sheets were strewn partially off the bed as if Steve had gotten up in a hurry. Bucky’s pillow was on the floor, and Peter skirted around it on his way to the closet. He carefully selected a pair of Bucky’s jeans that were sure to be too big on him, though they were smaller than Steve’s. When he pulled them on, the bottoms went past his toes, making his feet look like flippers. He grabbed one of Steve’s tight shirts, which hung off his narrower frame.

He nearly tripped on the pants when he made his way back to the living room; Bucky pressed his lips together like he was trying not to smile.

“Sit down,” he told Peter, patting the couch.

Peter sat, and Bucky motioned for him to lift up his legs. Peter did; Bucky carefully rolled up the ends of the jeans so they cut off right at the bottom of Peter’s ankles.

“Better,” he said, looking satisfied. “Do you need a belt.”

Peter tugged down on his belt loops; the jeans nearly slid down his thighs. “Uh… That might be good.”

“Top left drawer in the dresser on the right.”

“Thanks,” Peter said, ducking his head and scurrying back to the bedroom.

When he returned, Steve was sitting on the couch and lacing his shoes beside Bucky, who had a hand on his back. He was wearing sunglasses and a hoodie; if Peter didn’t know him so well, he probably wouldn’t notice him in a crowd. 

“Ready for breakfast,” Bucky asked, and Peter nodded. “Hill made grits. Before she had to go. She left them on the table upstairs.”

“Cool,” Peter said happily.

“Do you have your phone, Stevie.”

Steve patted his pockets, his face slowly shifting to an expression of mild alarm. “No, I don’t know where…”

“Check the bed,” Bucky said.

Steve hurried down the hall; Bucky glanced over at his wheelchair, pressing his lips together.

“Um… Do you… I can help, if you want?” said Peter tentatively.

Bucky shook his head. “You would have to lift me. I’m too heavy.”

“I lifted a building,” Peter said without thinking.

Bucky looked equal parts upset and furious on Peter’s behalf, like he always did when Peter mentioned it.

“Only part of one,” Peter amended quickly. “It wasn’t even… It’s fine. I was just… You’re not too heavy.”

Bucky’s expression was conflicted, his face showing more emotions than Peter had seen on him in a week, but he finally gave a little nod. “Bring… _it_ here. And put the brake lock on. Please.”

Peter pushed the chair over, pressing the brakes into place. Bucky gritted his teeth.

“You just. Have to lift.”

“Okay,” Peter said. He slid one arm under Bucky’s knees and the other under Bucky’s back and glanced up to make sure Bucky was good. 

“I won’t break,” Bucky snapped out before quickly deflating. “Sorry. Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Peter assured him. “Ready?”

Bucky dipped his head; Peter lifted him up off the couch and maneuvered him into the chair as carefully as possible. Just a few months ago, Bucky had carried Peter to bed after a near all-nighter. Peter’s heart twinged, and he positioned Bucky’s feet on the footrests before stepping back.

“Okay?” he asked.

“Yeah. Thanks.” Bucky smiled somewhat tightly at Peter, unlocking the brakes. “Let’s go.”

Peter looked up to find Steve waiting in the hallway, looking slightly saddened, though the expression vanished when attention turned to him. 

“C’mon, Stevie. We don’t got all day,” Bucky said, wheeling his way to the door. Peter followed, and Steve strode across the living room to bring up the rear as they headed to the elevator.

The grits were on the counter in the shared kitchen as promised; Hill had made enough to feed the three of them, which wasn’t easy. They were the Tower’s biggest eaters; they had the fastest metabolisms, though Bruce could put away more than everyone combined after a jaunt as the Hulk.

They ate quickly, mostly silent as they emptied their bowls. When they finished, they brought their dishes to the sink, rinsing them quickly.

“You coming, Buck?” Steve asked, heading for the elevator with Peter on his heels.

Bucky shook his head. “Promised Potts I’d go to Central Park with her before her meetings.”

Steve’s face went soft. “Have a good time, then, alright?”

“You too, pal.”

Peter waved at Bucky as the elevator doors slid shut; he saw Bucky smile a little bit. Steve set a hand on Peter’s shoulder.

“We need to stop by your room to get your bag, don’t we?”

“Oh… yeah! I almost forgot.”

The elevator paused, opening to the hallway outside Peter’s room. Peter darted out, slipping into his room and snatching up his backpack before hurrying back down the hall. Steve smiled at him as the elevator resumed its descent; they strode towards the doors when they reached the lobby, stepping out into the sunshine.

“It’s nice out,” Peter remarked, slightly surprised.

Steve nodded in agreement. “It finally feels like spring. You’ll be out of school in a few weeks, won’t you?”

Peter wrinkled his nose.

“What’s the face for?” Steve asked, bemused.

“Finals,” Peter sighed. “Finals are the worst.”

“Final exams?”

Peter nodded. “I’m trying not to think about them.”

“You’ll do just fine,” Steve assured him. “You’re a smart kid. Smarter than me or Buck ever was.”

Peter’s cheeks pinkened. “I’m not- It’s not…”

“Tony says you could be in college right now, if that’s what you wanted.”

“I don’t…” Peter paused, letting the statement soak in. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Huh.”

Steve’s eyes crinkled as he looked over at Peter, simultaneously dodging a harried businessman. “Don’t get me wrong, Tony would be miserable if you went off to college so soon, especially because you’d be all the way in Boston if you went to MIT. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself. But he’d support that, if you wanted it.”

“ _Huh_ ,” Peter said again. “I mean, I don’t… I’m happy in high school right now. I don’t want to leave Ned and MJ. Or you guys.”

“I won’t deny that I’m happy to hear that,” Steve admitted. “I think we’d all be a little lost without you around.”

Peter looked down at his feet, cheeks coloring again. “Really?”

“Really,” Steve confirmed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments are appreciated!
> 
> I'm sorry that I haven't updated in so long! I thought I'd have more time to write these past couple weeks, but training ponies is tiring work, and the rest of my free time has mostly been going to watching a baby! Luckily I have a couple pre-written chapters, one of which I'm posting now. I won't have to babysit as much after the next few days, so I'm hoping to get more writing done soon. Thank you for understanding and bearing with me!
> 
> (If anyone wants to hear about the ponies, I'd be more than happy to talk about them. They're great.)


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Puppy time! Again!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added art to the last chapter, so feel free to check it out!

“Peter!” Ned called, waving from where he and MJ were already seated in the cafeteria. “Dude, can I bring Quinn over today?”

Peter’s face lifted into a grin as he slid onto the bench. “Yeah, sure! Everyone’s gonna be so excited!”

MJ’s lips twitched. “Have fun with that.”

Ned’s brow wrinkled. “What do you mean? You’re coming, right?”

For a second, MJ actually looked surprised, a rarity for her. She quickly slid back to unaffected and rolled her eyes. “I guess.”

“Good.” Ned looked satisfied. “Ooh, do you think Ms. Hill would teach me more kicky-punchy stuff?”

MJ snorted. “Not if she hears you calling it that.”

Ned pushed out his lower lip in an exaggerated frown.

“She will,” Peter assured him. “She loves you.”

“ _Really_? I thought she just tolerated me!”

“She definitely likes you. She has the same expression talking to you as she does when she watches Wall-E, and Wall-E is like, her favorite movie. She thinks it’s precious.” Peter clapped his hand over his mouth. “Shoot, I think that was supposed to be a secret.”

“Her secret is safe with us,” Ned said very seriously. “I promise.”

\----

After school, Peter and MJ hurried out after Ned to the parking lot, where Ned’s mom was waiting in her car with Quinn in the backseat. Quinn yipped happily at the sight of Ned, launching herself at him and chewing on his arm. He caught her leash before she could tumble out of the car, laughing.

“Are you two coming over?” Ned’s mom asked Peter and MJ with a smile.

“Actually, I was hoping I could bring Quinn over to Peter’s place!” Ned exclaimed. “Everyone wants to meet her!”

“Alright,” said Ned’s mom. “Am I driving the three of you there?”

“Yes, please!” Ned chirped, hopping into the car and scooting down to make room for MJ and Peter. 

Quinn flopped across their laps, wiggling excitedly and catching Ned’s shirt between her teeth. Ned removed his shirt from her mouth carefully as MJ began rubbing her belly. She made an excited snort and wiggled harder.

“I think I’m gonna die,” MJ said seriously. “She’s so cute.”

“Isn’t she?” said Ned, glowing. He kissed Quinn’s nose and got a multitude of sloppy licks for his trouble.

The three of them fawned over Quinn for the duration of the ride to the Tower, answering Ned’s mom’s questions about how school was and how their classes were going in a perfunctory manner. She looked fondly exasperated at the their halfhearted answers, but didn’t press them. When she pulled up in front of the Tower, the three of them toppled out onto the sidewalk, Quinn on their heels. She pulled on her leash, trying to pounce on an innocent passerby, then began to chew on the Avengers-print polyester. 

“Thanks, Mom!” Ned called, waving at the car. She rolled down the passenger side window.

“Call me when you want to be picked up! You can stay for dinner, but not past eight.”

“Okay, see you later!” Ned grinned.

Peter led the way through the lobby and into the leftmost elevator, which took them up to the common floor. Clint was sprawled out on the couch; his face lit up when he caught sight of Quinn.

“PUPPY!!” He dove onto the floor as Ned let Quinn off her leash and was promptly met by an armful of dog. “Puppy puppy puppy puppy…”

Hill poked her head out of the kitchen. “Did I hear puppy?”

“Yeah!” said Ned, pointing to Quinn, who was flailing and snorting on top of Clint.

Hill’s eyes crinkled, and she made her way over to sit cross-legged beside Clint. Quinn launched into her lap, and Clint whined unhappily.

“You stole my puppy!”

“I’m pretty sure she’s Ned’s puppy,” Hill said. She looked up at Ned and smiled. “Congratulations, by the way. She’s adorable.”

“Thanks!” Ned exclaimed.

Clint scooted over, making grabby hands until Hill passed Quinn back to him. He sighed contentedly as his face was covered in puppy slobber.

“What did you name her?” Hill asked Ned.

“Quinn,” Ned replied proudly.

Hill nodded. “Very fitting.”

“Someone call Nat,” said Clint, his voice muffled by fur. “She needs to meet this perfect loaf of puppy.”

“Ms. Romanova, Mrs. Potts, Mr. Stark, and Dr. Banner will all be stopping by soon,” JARVIS responded. “I would suggest bringing Quinn to Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes’ apartment afterwards.”

“We will!” Ned chirped. “Don’t worry!”

The ding of the elevator was barely audible over Clint’s chant of “puppy puppy puppy puppy,” and Tony and Pepper stepped into the room. Tony grabbed Pepper’s arm when his eyes found Quinn.

“Look at it,” he said, amazed. “It’s like a beautiful gremlin. Oh my god, the eyes are so big and… wow. Maybe we should-”

“We’re not getting a puppy,” Pepper told him.

“Party pooper. I mean, we do have a Peter, but it’s really not the same.”

“We’re _not_ getting a puppy,” Pepper repeated.

“But Pep, the eyes…”

“No,” Pepper said.

Tony pouted and blinked sadly.

“That doesn’t work on me, Tony.”

“But it works when Peter does it!”

“Peter doesn’t use his eyes for nefarious purposes,” said Pepper.

“Objection!” Tony protested. “Puppies aren’t nefarious.”

“That’s true. But you still can’t have a puppy.”

Tony looked like he might keep arguing; Hill cut him off with a severe glance.

“Give it up. You’ll never win.”

“Don’t you want a puppy?” Tony asked her.

“I do. However, I also know that I don’t have the time or energy to take care of a puppy. It comes with the territory of what we do for a living.”

Tony opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “I need to stop hiring people like you. It’s bad for my ego.”

“People like me?” Hill said with a sharp eyebrow.

Tony huffed. “You know. People who are always right.”

“Woah,” Clint said, sitting up with Quinn in his arms. “Did you just admit someone else was right? Who are you and what have you done to Tony Stark?”

“Fuck off,” Tony said plaintively.

“Language!” Pepper scolded.

MJ snickered a little. 

“It’s okay, he can swear in front of us,” Ned said. “Ooh, Peter, I learned how to say shit in Spanish!”

“Really? What is it?”

“Mierda,” Ned said proudly. “I heard Señor Alcaldo say it when he tripped over that blond girl’s backpack earlier.”

“Guess how many languages I can say ‘shit’ in!” said Clint, grinning.

“Five?” 

“More.”

“Six?”

“More.”

“Eight?”

“More.”

“Eleven?” MJ guessed.

“Bingo!” Clint exclaimed.

“What languages?” asked Ned curiously.

“Well, there’s-”

“Don’t do it,” Pepper warned.

“Aww, please?”

“No,” said Hill.

“Pretty please?”

“Nope.”

“I, for one, would like to hear-” Tony was cut off by Pepper.

“ _No_ , Tony.”

Clint winked at the boys and mouthed, “I’ll tell you later.”

“You’ll tell them what later?” asked Natasha, striding out of the elevator.

Clint’s eyes widened. “Nothing!”

Natasha looked entirely unconvinced, but settled for sitting down and reaching out for the puppy.

“Nooo!” Clint said, hugging Quinn closer to his chest.

“I could eviscerate you,” Natasha remarked, looking down at her nails delicately.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Hmm.” Natasha pulled a knife out of nowhere, polishing the blade with the hem of her shirt. She gave Clint’s shoulder a little poke, not breaking the skin. “You’re right. Not enough muscle to be worth my while.”

“Hey! I have muscles! Lots of them!”

“Not compared to Capsicle,” Tony said.

“Nobody has muscles compared to Steve! Not fair!”

“Barnes has some muscles,” said Hill.

“Dr. Banner has lots of muscles when he’s green,” Ned pointed out.

“Have you seen Wilson’s thighs?” Natasha said, nudging Hill, who nodded thoughtfully.

“You’re all horrible and I’m leaving,” said Clint, surrendering Quinn to Natasha and slinking towards the elevators. He disappeared into the leftmost one just as Bruce stepped out of the one on the right; a smile graced Bruce’s face at the sight of Quinn.

“She’s so tiny,” he marveled.

Natasha got to her feet, offering Quinn out. “You can hold her.”

“Oh, I don’t… I can just look,” Bruce said.

“You won’t hurt her,” Natasha told him, placing Quinn in his arms.

He drew in a quick breath, then exhaled as Quinn sniffed at his scruffy chin and licked his neck.

“She likes you!” Ned said, grinning.

Bruce’s eyes crinkled, and his cheeks lifted crookedly. “She’s great.”

“She’s precious,” Pepper agreed, coming to stand beside Bruce. She brushed her hand over the top of Quinn’s head, getting slobber on her fingers for her trouble.

Tony grumbled something about still wanting a puppy, then something about getting back to work. He ruffled Peter’s hair before heading for the elevators, giving Ned and MJ a pat on the shoulder as he passed them.

“You coming by the lab later to work on the braces?” he called to Peter.

“Yep!” Peter replied. “I’m gonna hang out with MJ and Ned, then I’m gonna go on patrol, and then I’m coming down to the lab!”

“What about your homework?” Pepper asked.

“Right,” Peter said. “I’ll get it done, I promise.”

“And the two of you?” Pepper turned to Ned and MJ.

“I’ll do it tonight,” Ned replied.

“I finished mine during study hall,” said MJ.

“Lucky,” Peter sighed.

“Homework, gross,” Tony said, stepping into the elevator. “Have fun with that. Hey Brucie, are you coming with?”

Bruce shook his head, taking one of Quinn’s little paws and making her wave at Tony. “In a minute. I just want to hug this puppy a bit more first.”

“Fair enough. Feel free to join my campaign for a puppy. I’d appreciate your support.”

“Tony, no,” said Pepper.

“Tony, _yes_ ,” replied Tony, smirking before the elevator door closed.

Pepper sighed. “He’s impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible,” Natasha said. “You just need to use enough force.”

Ned looked at her, seemingly unsure if she was joking or not.

“Speaking of using force, do you want to train with Nat and I again?” Hill asked Ned and MJ.

Ned nodded excitedly, and MJ grinned.

“Be careful with them,” Pepper said. “I don’t want to have to explain injuries to their parents.”

“We won’t,” Hill assured her. “What do you take us for, Pep, monsters?”

“It’s not like Nat threatened to flay Clint about ten minutes ago,” Pepper replied with a hint of impish sarcasm.

“I would never,” said Natasha seriously.

Hill snorted a little before turning back to Ned, MJ, and Peter. “Why don’t we head down to Steve and Barnes’ place? I bet they’ll puppy-sit if we ask nicely.”

As they started toward the elevators, Bruce handed Quinn over to Ned. “Thanks for letting me hold her.”

“Sure! Any time!”

Bruce smiled at him. “You’ll have to bring her again soon.”

“I will,” Ned assured him.

Quinn sniffed Ned’s armpit, wriggled onto his shoulder, and stretched out to lick MJ’s ear. MJ grinned a little.

“Can I hold her?”

“Yeah!”

Quinn wiggled excitedly as she was passed into MJ’s arms. Puppy kisses landed all over MJ’s face; MJ leaned back and wrinkled her nose.

“Not in my mouth. Blergh.”

Peter giggled, and MJ shut him up with a halfhearted glare. The elevator dinged; they all trooped in.

“So I have this hypothesis that Bucky’s brain is gonna melt when he sees Quinn,” Peter said. “‘Cause he loves Eleanor the cat, right? So he likes fluffy things and warm eyes, and Quinn is the literal embodiment of both…”

“I think that’s a viable hypothesis,” Natasha said thoughtfully. “Strong evidence. I’m sure he’ll want to hold her.”

“He won’t ask, though,” Hill put in. “He’ll just stare at her until someone offers her to him.”

“Probably,” Natasha agreed. “Let’s go find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's been so long! Here I thought I'd have more time, but I've had things to do after work every day this week, and writing just hasn't been happening as much as I'd like it to. I'm hoping this coming week won't be as wild, but I can't promise an update until next weekend! Thanks for sticking with me!
> 
> Also, for those of you who like ponies, here is some pony stuff: There are five ponies that we use to teach the kiddos how to ride, and they're all very precious. Two of them have been doing this for _years_ , so they're veterans, and they're also in love and it's really cute. They're literally inseparable; I caught them grooming each other this morning, and it was adorable (yes, [horses do that](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jnx8RbUvVyg) (not my video)). The third horse is pretty darn old, but very sweet and gentle. The fourth pony is younger, and used to be an [eventer](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eventing); I got to school her this morning, which was lots of fun. The fifth pony is the youngest and the smallest, and also has some anxiety, which I can relate to. She thinks wheelbarrows are out to get her, and she's a little bit scared of chickens. And groundhogs. And lots of other things. It's a work in progress haha
> 
> Thank you for reading!! Comments are appreciated!


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky meets Quinn!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, dialogue in languages other than English is hyperlinked. If you're on mobile, translations are also in the end notes.

Peter trooped out of the elevator, followed by MJ and Ned, and then Natasha and Hill. They headed down the hall, stopping in front of Steve and Bucky’s door. Peter knocked carefully, then stepped back to wait between Hill and Ned. 

Steve opened the door within twenty seconds; his face went from surprise at the large group in front of him to delight at Quinn.

“Is this the new puppy?” he asked, holding his hand out for Quinn to sniff.

“No, this is a troll from under the Brooklyn Bridge that we glued fur onto for the express purpose of disturbing you,” Natasha told him.

“Um,” Steve said, looking more than mildly alarmed.

Hill snorted, and Natasha hit her shoulder. 

“I almost had him,” she hissed.

“He’s not _that_ gullible,” Hill replied.

A short laugh rolled out of the apartment; Steve frowned as he stepped aside to let everyone in.

“Don’t laugh, Buck. They’ll keep doing it.”

“That’s the point, pal,” Bucky said, smiling at the sight of Peter. He nodded to Ned, Hill, and Natasha, then froze when he saw Quinn in MJ’s arms.

“Her name is Quinn,” Ned told him. “Isn’t she cute?”

Bucky stared for several long moments, then snapped his eyes up to Ned. “Yes.”

Peter noticed Bucky’s hands twitch, his gaze returning immediately to Quinn. His eyes were wide. His lips parted slightly; he pressed them shut.

“Do you want to hold her?” MJ asked.

Bucky just looked at her, lost for words.

“Buck?” Steve pressed.

Bucky still didn’t answer, drinking in Quinn’s puppy-sleek fur and big, brown eyes.

“Ты можешь обнять ее,” Natasha said to Bucky after a minute.

“Я не могу,” Bucky mumbled.

“You can,” Natasha told him. “You’ll like it.”

Bucky lifted an eyebrow, his face unreadable.

“Here,” MJ said, making her way over and placing Quinn in his lap.

Bucky tensed; Quinn sniffed his shirt and jumped up to put her paws on his chest, giving his nose a lick. Her tail wagged speedily, and she snuffled at the side of his face. The deep lines in Bucky’s brow disappeared; his eyes softened. He reached up tentatively with his flesh hand and stroked Quinn’s back. Quinn snorted, wiggling her entire body with joy. She flopped on her back in Bucky’s lap, exposing her underside for rubs. When Bucky cautiously ran his hand across her belly, she let her tongue loll out in bliss. Bucky’s face melted into a smile.

“Your hypothesis was correct,” Natasha said to Peter.

Bucky looked up, still soft around the edges. “What hypothesis.”

“That you’d love puppies,” said Hill.

Bucky huffed a little, failing to be indignant in the least and returning his adoring gaze to Quinn.

“Я говорила тебе,” Natasha muttered, looking a bit smug.

“Shut up,” he told her.

“Alright, let’s head down to the gym,” Hill said. “Barnes, you don’t mind watching the puppy, do you?”

“Was this your plan all along,” asked Bucky, narrowing his eyes. “Taking advantage of me.”

Hill opened her mouth to reply, but Bucky beat her to it.

“Just pulling your leg. I’ll watch her. ”

Surprise flashed across Hill’s face for a millisecond, and then she let out a laugh. “Thanks, Barnes. I knew we could count on you. Have fun snuggling.”

“I do not. Snuggle.”

Hill’s lips twitched. “Whatever you say, Barnes.”

Bucky very deliberately scratched his nose with his metal middle finger. MJ snorted, Ned grinned, and Peter covered his mouth, eyes crinkling. Steve seemed both surprised and delighted. Natasha looked bored, but also very much like she was holding her breath to keep from laughing.

“See you, Mr. Bucky!” Ned said, waving. “Thanks for watching Quinn!”

Bucky grunted in response, returning his attention to the happily wriggling pup on his lap. Everyone trooped out the door, but not before Natasha snapped a sneaky picture of Bucky kissing Quinn’s nose.

\----

When they got to the gym, Peter plopped down on a mat and opened his backpack, pulling out his final review guide for history class. He made a sound of anguish and dropped the packet into his lap. MJ looked over from where she and Natasha were wrapping their hands.

“History?”

“Yeah,” Peter sighed. “The Spanish-American War.”

“Go through your notes, highlight the important stuff.”

Peter made another miserable sound and started digging around for a highlighter.

“You’re pathetic,” said MJ.

“I know,” Peter replied, sounding dejected. 

“You need to work on your self-confidence,” MJ told him.

Peter glanced up, furrowing his brow. “But you just called me pathetic.”

“You know that I insult you because you’re my friend, right?” MJ looked mildly concerned. “I don’t mean it.”

“I… Yeah,” Peter said, entirely unconvincingly. 

MJ lowered her face into a hand. “You’re an idiot.”

“Did you mean that?” Peter asked, confused.

“Oh my god,” MJ said wearily.

Peter heard a tiny snort escape someone, and looked over to find Natasha’s shoulders shaking minutely. Under his gaze, she straightened and plastered an overly serious expression on her face.

“She’s right, you know.”

Peter looked even more bewildered. “About me being an idiot, or me being pathetic?”

“About you needing to work on your self-esteem.”

Peter dropped his eyes back to his paper, scratching the back of his head. “I mean… I’m just… I don’t want to be…”

“Go on and study,” Hill said kindly. “We’ll talk about it later.”

Only MJ seemed to catch the faint “oh no” that escaped his lips; she gave him a pitying look before stepping onto the mats across from Natasha. While Ned and Hill sat down and stretched, Natasha and MJ began discussing different takedowns, and in which situations they were effective. It was really interesting; Peter had to work hard to tune them out so he could study.

He hoped Hill wasn’t serious about talking to him about his self-esteem. His confidence wasn’t that bad, was it? Sure, he thought that he wasn’t as good as a lot of people, but that was just true, wasn’t it? He chewed on his pen, eyes unfocused for a moment before he shook himself and looked back down at the paper. Crap. Focus focus focus. He chanced a glance up and found Natasha watching him while blocking rapid-fire punches from MJ. She lifted a thin, sculpted eyebrow and he ducked his head.

“I’ll let you spar for ten minutes if you focus for thirty,” she called.

Peter nodded in agreement, relaxing a little. He could do this. He dove into his messily scribbled notes on José Martí and the Cuban Revolutionary Party, picking through the information with his highlighter. It wasn’t too bad, really. Only a page. When he was done, he moved on to the USS Maine. 

It seemed like no time had passed before Natasha was beckoning him over; he shook his muscles loose and stepped up to face her. One moment she was looking steadily at him, and the next he was on the ground with his arms twisted behind him, though not uncomfortably. It took his brain a few moments to catch up, and by then Natasha was lifting him bodily back to his feet. Ned’s jaw was gaping while MJ looked mildly impressed. Hill’s lips twitched a bit.

“You’re slow today,” Natasha said. “Focus.”

“Focus,” Peter repeated.

Natasha came at him again and he managed to dodge this time; she was faster than anyone else he knew. He aimed a swipe at her legs, blocking her offensive. She flipped out of the way, catching his arm and using the momentum to haul him down to the mat. He sprung back up before she could pin him, feigning left before dashing right to get behind her. He latched around her neck in a chokehold and she dove forward, flipping him once again to the ground. This time, she restrained him before he could jump back to his feet. He let out an elated breath, the adrenaline bringing a grin to his face. 

“How would you escape?” she asked. “You’re down, but you’re not out. Not in a real fight.”

Peter kicked his legs beneath him and righted himself with force, throwing Natasha off. He caught a hint of surprise in her eyes, like she’d forgotten his strength, before she nodded. 

“Good. Again.”

Peter made the first move this time, throwing a series of punches so fast that he nearly got the last one past Natasha’s guard. She looked… proud? Peter didn’t have time to analyze it before she was firing back; he focused all his energy on the fight. Once or twice, Ned might’ve gasped, but Peter could barely hear a thing over the sound of his breath and their feet on the mat.

Peter managed to get in a few hits as they went on, even unbalancing Natasha once, though never taking her down. Before he knew it, Natasha was stepping back, gesturing for him to cool out, and he let out a breath of disappointment.

“I’d love to keep going, but you have work to do,” Natasha told him. “Anyway, Barnes is getting twitchy.”

Peter spun around and found Bucky beside MJ, looking undeniably concerned under a heavy brow. Quinn was sitting in his lap, chewing on a metal finger while he stroked her back with his flesh hand.

“Why? Is something… Did he ….?”

Natasha shook her head, surprisingly warm-eyed. “He’s fairly protective of you.”

That rendered Peter speechless long enough for Natasha to pat his shoulder and shoo him away, beckoning MJ back to the mat in his place. He made his way over to Bucky, whose shoulders softened.

“How’s Quinn?” Peter asked him.

Bucky’s eyes crinkled a bit. “Good.”

“She really likes you,” Peter observed, watching Quinn lick Bucky’s metal hand.

“I like her, too,” Bucky replied, very quietly.

That brought a grin to Peter’s face. “Ned’s gonna be so glad. Unless you steal her, then he would probably be pretty miserable.”

Bucky looked mildly offended. “I wouldn’t steal her. I would ask first.”

“You would ask if you could steal her?” Peter asked, still smiling widely.

Bucky gave him a softer version of the look that Tony had dubbed ‘Murder Brows,’ which wasn’t honestly that much less scary. Peter guessed that a normal person would probably pee their pants. Luckily, he was Bucky’s friend.

“Do you want help with your studying,” Bucky asked.

“That would be great,” Peter said with a vigorous nod. “Can you quiz me on the Battle of San Juan Hill?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Ты можешь обнять ее- You can hug her  
> Я не могу- I can’t  
> Я говорила тебе- I told you  
> Thanks to [Acai786](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acai786/pseuds/Acai786) and [QuiteMagical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuiteMagical/pseuds/QuiteMagical) for helping me with the Russian!
> 
> \---
> 
> I'm still pretty busy these days (Sundays are the only day I don't have to work at all), so I can't promise I'll update before next weekend. I barely managed to get this chapter out in time! I would add a pony story here in the notes, but I have to get up early for work tomorrow as per usual, so I'm off to bed. I'm grateful for your patience!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Comments are appreciated! <3


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony and Peter have a Talk about Life.
> 
> (Tony adulting?? Shocking!)

Later, after Peter had gone on a quick patrol through Queens (and prevented a guy from stealing a bike, helped an old lady who had dropped her key in a storm drain, stopped a person from robbing folks at an ATM, and waited for an ambulance with a woman who tripped down her front steps and hit her head), he headed to Tony’s workshop to put the finishing touches on Bucky’s braces. 

“You’re nervous,” Tony observed as Peter unboxed the last of the custom parts with a pounding heart. “Worried about things going wrong?”

Peter looked up quickly. “How can you tell?”

“You’re wiggling your knee back and forth.” Tony set down a wrench and made his way over. “I promise, kid, you’ve done your best, and your best is exceptional. You’ve accounted for everything that I’ve thought of, and also some stuff that I haven’t, which is pretty damn impressive. I was honestly thinking of stealing your design and giving Rhodey an upgrade. Well, not _stealing_ , but y’know.”

Peter let out a tiny, weak laugh. “Really?”

“Yeah. It’ll work, kiddo.”

Peter took a deep breath, then continued his work, hands steadier. Tony lingered a bit, looking over his shoulder at the parts.

“Looks like you’ll finish tonight.”

Peter nodded silently, fumbling a tiny bit with a screw.

“Hey, I’m proud of you, y’know. You’ve worked hard on this.”

Peter smiled a little bit, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Thanks.”

Tony studied him for a few moments. “You’re still worried about something.”

“There’s always something to worry about,” Peter said quickly, almost defensively.

For once, Tony said nothing, waiting.

“I’m not really fixing anything,” Peter finally mumbled. “He’s still paralyzed. I’m just… I dunno. I can’t _really_ fix it, you know? Even if the braces work, I still failed.”

Tony stayed silent, watching Peter carefully.

“See?” Peter bit out. “You agree with me.”

“I don’t fu- Like hell I agree with you. I think you’re looking at this all wrong.”

Peter crossed his arms, lips trembling.

Tony took a deep breath. “First of all, you can’t fix Barnes’s paralysis. Second of all, why the hell would it be your job? Third, actually, this should’ve been first, you have a weird idea of what constitutes failure. Because I’m pretty sure helping a paralysed guy walk isn’t failure. But all of that aside, you’re still looking at this wrong. Remember the first point that probably should’ve been second, the one about not being able to fix paralysis?”

Peter gave a single nod.

“I don’t think… Look. With our technology today, even the very best of it, we can’t fix the damage done to Barnes’s spinal cord. It’s impossible, and I hate that word. I mean, maybe in ten, fifteen years… But we’re not ten or fifteen years in the future, we’re living right now. You hear me? You can’t keep the mentality that Barnes is going to be fixed and everything is gonna be fine. I promise that everything’s gonna be fine, but barring a miracle of all miracles, Barnes will never walk on his own again. He’s working on accepting that, and you need to, too. For your own good and for his.”

Peter’s lip wobbled harder, and Tony winced.

“I fucked that up, didn’t I? Shit. I just meant to say that he can be happy and be paralysed, okay? The two aren’t mutually exclusive, and thinking that they are is kind of… what’s that word? Rhodey said it one time. Never mind. Just… It’s not the end of the world, Peter, okay? Yeah, Barnes is paralysed, and it sucks. But he can still do stuff, and _it’s not your fucking fault_. Jesus, I suck at this. Just…c’mere.”

Peter let Tony wrap his arms around him, and he buried his face in Tony’s shirt. He felt Tony rub his back tentatively at first, then more firmly. It felt like ages before Tony finally stepped back, hands on Peter’s shoulders.

“I know it’s not what you want to hear, Pete. I’m sorry.” 

Peter wiped a sleeved arm over his eyes. “It’s fine. You’re right. I’m being stupid.”

Tony looked mildly panicked. “No, that’s not what I was saying either. You’re not being stupid, you just want to help. And look, I know where you’re coming from. I worked around the clock trying to find a cure for Rhodey, and finally, _he_ was the one who told me to give it up. Because I was stringing my hopes up on nonexistant nails, and it was doing him a disservice. He didn’t need me to fix him, he just needed me to be there. Does that make sense?”

“I think so,” Peter said, voice thick.

“The braces will work. And they’ll be helpful. But the real goal is to -don’t tell anyone I said this- heal emotionally. Dammit, I sound like a therapist.”

Peter laughed shakily.

Tony held up a finger. “If you people about that, I swear I’ll… I don’t know. Ground you, or something. Maybe take away your phone.”

Peter quickly mimed zipping his lips and throwing away the key, and Tony smiled. 

“Back to work, then?”

“Back to work,” Peter confirmed, sniffing to keep his nose from running. He felt something bump his leg and looked down to find Butterfingers holding a box of tissues. He took one and patted Butterfingers’ claw. “Thanks.”

Butterfingers chirped and dropped the tissue box on Peter’s foot, rolling back to where the other bots were futzing around with a mannequin hand. Dum-E made a whirring noise and attempted to pat Butterfingers in the same manner that Peter had. Butterfingers grabbed onto Dum-E’s arm and refused to let go, no matter how much Dum-E flailed. Tony winced at the sound of gears grinding.

“Y’know, I think we already have some puppies,” he said. “Maybe Pepper was right. Imagine the damage that a real one would do.”

Peter let out a real laugh. “It would be a mess.”

“Chaos. Possible doom.” Tony strode over to the bots in exasperation, flapping his hands at Butterfingers. “Quit it. Down, boy.”

Butterfingers let out a spiteful chitter, tightening his grip. Dum-E spun around in circles, narrowly missing Tony’s legs.

“Jesus,” Tony sighed, beating a hasty retreat. “If you break your claw, I’m not fixing it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word that Tony can't think of is "[abl](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ableism)e[ist](http://www.stopableism.org/p/what-is-ableism.html)" ... He's freaking out about adulting (fathering!) a little too much to remember it. Or form particularly coherent ideas. In a typical Tony fashion, he's overthinking.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments are appreciated! 
> 
> In exchange for your patience, have a pony story:  
> Feeding time is sort of a mess, really... The ponies are mostly pretty old, so they have different kinds of grain and some meds and supplements, too. Out of the five of them, only one (the youngest) eats everything without a complaint. She even picks up her bowl when she's done and hands it to me! It almost makes up for her irrational fear of wheelbarrows.  
> Aaanyway, the other four are little disasters. The next youngest hates eating her powedered meds, so she takes mouthfuls and spits them out into her water bucket (which backfires, because she then drinks it- ha!). #3 eats everything except her pill, which we've taken to concealing in a bite of apple. #4 slobbers everwhere and then wipes it on my shirt (or my face, if I'm lucky...). The fifth pony, who's almost thirty (old!!), is a sweetheart, but he has some teeth missing, so his food tends to fall out of his mouth everywhere. And then he tries to eat it off the ground and makes even more of a mess... Poor guy. He tries his best!
> 
> I have to go to bed; I hope you enjoyed the chapter, as well as this little pony update! This coming week is going to be busier than ever, but I'll try to update again by next Sunday!


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky tries on the braces!

Before school the next morning, Peter scurried down to Steve and Bucky’s apartment and knocked quickly, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Steve opened the door about forty-five seconds later, his hair sticking up from sleep and his eyes bleary. Despite this, he smiled kindly at Peter.

“Did I wake you up? I’m really sorry,” Peter said.

“Don’t worry about it. Buck’s not up yet, but I can pass a message along?”

“That would be great,” Peter replied, rubbing the back of his head. “Could you -um- tell him that I finished the braces? And he can try them after I’m back from school? Or… If he doesn’t want to wait, Tony probably-”

“Of course he’ll wait,” Steve said. “He’ll want you to be there. That’s great news, Peter, I’ll let him know.”

“Thanks. I’ll -uh- I’ll be back later.”

“Have a good day at school,” said Steve warmly. “See you soon.”

\----

Peter spent most of the school day unfocused, running through possible disaster scenarios in his head… He did some calculations wrong and the braces don’t fit. Or Bucky isn’t happy with them. Or he falls and gets hurt worse. Or the braces come apart and _then_ he falls and gets hurt worse. Or they explode and Bucky-

The last bell rang, jerking Peter out of his preoccupation and freeing him to run home. He waved goodbye to Ned and MJ over his shoulder as he hiked up his backpack and sped through the crowds out onto the sidewalk. He didn’t slow down until he was hurrying into the lobby of the Tower, smiling halfheartedly to Tina and jiggling his knee until the elevator doors opened to take him up. 

He got out on Steve and Bucky’s floor, skidding down the hall and taking a few breaths before knocking. Bucky pulled the door open moments later, as if he’d been waiting. He probably had been, Peter realized. He twitched his lips slightly at Peter, then turned his wheelchair away.

“Keep me waiting, Rogers,” he called, wryly irritated.

Peter heard a crash, a muttered “shoot,” and Steve rushed into the living room while trying to put on shoes.

“Sorry, sorry…oh, hi Peter. Sorry…”

Bucky raised a pointed eyebrow, and Steve glared faintly back.

“Shut up, Buck.”

“I didn’t say nothin’,” Bucky replied, wheeling out the door.

Steve succeeded in putting on his shoes and closed the door after them; he and Peter fell into step on Bucky’s sides. None of them spoke as they got into the elevator and descended several floors to the workshop. Tony’s loud rock got markedly quieter when the three of them entered, prompting Tony to look up. He gave Bucky a genuine smile, and Bucky waved a few metal fingers in return. Moments later, those metal fingers were being accosted by a chirping Butterfingers, who looked the robot equivalent of delighted to see Bucky. Steve smiled at the sight; Tony gave Butterfingers a betrayed look.

“Traitor,” he said. “I made you.”

Butterfingers turned his back on Tony, who huffed indignantly. Steve looked like he was trying not to laugh.

“Shut up,” Tony told him, raising a finger.

Steve lifted his hands placatingly while composing himself. “I never said anything.”

It was Peter who giggled this time, despite the deep pit in his stomach.

“Are you laughing at me?” Tony asked suspiciously.

“No,” Peter said, sobering. “It’s just that this exact conversation happened, like, three minutes ago.”

“Really? Lemme guess… Freezer Burn told Ice Cube to shut up because… Because… J, help me out here.”

“It was the other way around, Sir,” JARVIS said. “Captain Rogers told Sergeant Barnes to shut up, but I’m unable to ascertain the exact reason. The exchange occurred in private quarters, so camera footage is not available, but I’d warrant a guess that Sergeant Barnes used his rather expressive eyebrows in place of his words to express his displeasure with Captain Rogers’ tardiness.”

Bucky squinted up at the ceiling. “You shouldn’t have saved audio footage, either.”

“The front door was open,” said JARVIS apologetically. “I picked up sound from the hallway.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes slightly, but nodded. He looked over at Peter, who was running his fingers through his faded, now blond-green hair. He jumped under Bucky’s gaze and drew in a breath.

“Um… Okay. Would you… Would you like to try the braces?”

Bucky tugged his metal hand away from Butterfingers, who squawked in offense, and wheeled over to Peter. He paused before touching Peter’s arm.

“You don’t have to worry.”

“ _But what if they don’t work?_ ” Peter asked, his voice small.

Bucky pressed his lips together and gave a little shrug. “Wouldn’t be the end of the world.”

“But-”

“I told you, kiddo, they’ll work,” said Tony. “C’mon, let’s get to it.”

Peter let out a breath and nodded, pulling the cover off the braces for Bucky to see.

“Wow,” Steve said, taking in the complex joints and metal plating.

Peter almost didn’t hear him; his complete attention was focused on Bucky’s reaction. He watched Bucky’s face move quickly through a few unidentifiable emotions before settling on something soft and watery-eyed.

“What do you think?” Peter squeaked.

Bucky didn’t reply, swallowing visibly with emotion.

“Is it… I can… I…” Peter was interrupted by a hand on his back.

“Breathe, kid. You’re hyperventilating,” Tony murmured.

“I’m… I’m not…” He trailed off, watching as Bucky wheeled forward, reaching out a trembling hand and touching one of the thigh plates like it was made of glass. After a long moment, he swiveled to face Peter.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Peter exhaled in utter relief. His knees felt wobbly; Tony was probably holding him up more that he’d care to admit.

“Can I…” Bucky gestured to the braces. 

Peter nodded quickly, shaking himself and kicking into gear. “Your feet go in first, like that. You -um- don’t have to adjust anything because they’re made for your measurements. The shin plates lock in here, just make sure you hear the click… Yeah. Now you have to use your fingerprint to active them, otherwise they won’t bend, so they can’t be corrupted or stolen… The sensor is just there, on the side.”

Bucky placed his finger on the side of the knee joint and the braces whirred awake, bending down to fasten around his waist.

“The full back and thighs are designed to come into place as you’re standing up, that way you don’t have to worry about lifting your legs in your chair,” said Peter, clasping and unclasping his hands. “Those electrodes go on your back, above the, um- disruption in your spine. They control movement. It… It should be easy to place them. Right under your shirt, the lowest you can still, um- feel them.”

Bucky inclined his head, reaching back to set the electrodes in place. He pulled his shirt down over them and looked up at Peter, who shoved his fidgeting hands in his pockets.

“Okay. Now… Now you just…” Peter bit his lip. “Grab the edge of the table and try to stand. Um… The muscles that you _can_ contract should trigger the braces. With the sensors. Sorry, that didn’t make sense… The electrodes-”

Bucky lifted his hand, interrupting Peter, though his eyes were kind. “I understand.”

Peter watched with bated breath as Bucky leaned forward, grabbed the edge of the workbench beside him… and lurched to his feet as the braces engaged. He pitched forward unsteadily, but caught himself with the table’s help; the corners of his mouth rose.

Tony clapped Peter’s back. “I told you so. You did good.”

Peter almost wanted to cry; Steve looked a little watery around the eyes himself.

“Um… balancing is going to be hard at first,” Peter told Bucky, forcing himself back on track. “You might feel yourself tipping and want to compensate with your upper body, but the braces are designed to rebalance you, so it’s a habit you’ll have to break. I… I wouldn’t expect to be walking by yourself for a couple weeks, um… maybe longer. But you’ll get there, it just takes practice and-”

Bucky cut Peter off this time with a level, gracious look. “Thank you.”

Peter’s chest tightened for a few moments before he could reply. “Sure, no problem.”

The last thing Peter saw before being enveloped in a crushing hug from Steve was Bucky’s eyes crinkling into a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might notice that Peter was missing an escort when he dashed back to the Tower after school... Never fear! Natasha was there the whole time, following at about 10 meters. Peter didn't pay attention to her because he was so anxious and lost in his head!
> 
> It was pointed out in the comments that Steve seems happier than Bucky about the braces; that's actually correct! Bucky has realized that presently, there's no real fix to the situation, and the braces are just a tool that can help him as he lives his life. Steve, however, sees the braces as something that will transform Bucky into a more able and hopefully happy person, kind of like the serum did for him. What Steve doesn't realize is that this view is inherently ableist, and Bucky doesn't need to be fixed, only supported. Looks like Steve would benefit from the talk that Tony gave Peter in the last chapter!
> 
>  
> 
> Next up: Hill and Nat talk to Peter about his self-esteem. I think it goes about as well as you'd expect? You'll have to see...
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Comments are appreciated. 
> 
>  
> 
> Pony update: have a bad pun. The pony with the irrational fear of wheelbarrows is also scared of large trucks, especially when the back is open. (In all fairness, it does look like a huge mouth... kind of?) Anyway, the food delivery truck came up the road and stopped, it it happened to be a Sysco truck. Well, our precious lil' pon-pon thought that was utterly alarming and had an Anxiety! (good thing she didn't have a rider on), and guess what? It was Panic! at the Sysco.
> 
> ...I'll show myself the door. Sorry about that. Hopefully I made a few of you laugh, at least? Maybe? I don't know how many of you listen to Panic! at the Disco. Anyway, have a good day/night!


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hill and Natasha give Peter a Talk about self-esteem. So does Bucky.

Peter hesitated in the kitchen entrance the next morning when he saw Hill and Natasha sitting at the table, seemingly waiting for him. His eyes then found the stack of pancakes that was also waiting for him, and he reluctantly made his way over to sit. Hill reached over and ruffled his faded hair before leaning back and clasping her hands together to mirror Natasha.

“We need to have a talk,” Hill said seriously. 

Peter gulped a little, and Natasha’s lips gave a minute twitch.

“You’re not in trouble,” she told him.

“This is about your self-esteem,” said Hill.

Peter made a little sound of doom.

“It won’t be that bad,” Hill assured him.

“I was hoping that you were joking,” he said weakly.

“You’ll live,” said Natasha. “So.”

“So,” Peter echoed, staring at his pancakes.

“You’re not pathetic. Or an idiot.”

“Sometimes I am,” Peter replied.

“Everybody makes mistakes,” Natasha said, waving a hand. “I’m not talking about that. You genuinely seem to think that you’re less than others by default, and that worries me.”

“I…” Peter rubbed the back of his neck. “Um… I don’t really… Yeah?”

“So you _do_ think that you’re inferior to others?” Hill pressed.

“I mean…” Peter trailed off in a mumble and took a large bite of pancake.

Both Hill and Natasha’s eyebrows arched dangerously, and _crap_ if that wasn’t one of the scariest things Peter had ever seen. He shrank in his seat, taking a long sip of orange juice. Hill leaned back and exchanged a look with Natasha.

“You have a therapist, don’t you?”

Peter nodded, then added, “I don’t see her a lot, though. I’m fine.”

Natasha and Hill glanced at each other again.

“I think you should start seeing her a bit more,” said Hill. “And it would be great if you’d talk to her about your sense of self-worth, or lack thereof.”

Peter watched his pancakes get mushier. “Is it because you think I’m broken?”

Natasha actually laughed. It was frightening. 

“We’re all broken, Peter,” she said. “It’s because learning to put yourself back together properly is important.”

Hill gave a nod of agreement. Peter chanced a look at the two of them before ducking his head again; the women allowed a long pause before they pressed on.

“So. Therapy,” said Natasha.

“Therapy,” Hill agreed. “You don’t seem very enthused, Peter. Is something wrong?”

“It’s just… I’m _fine_. I shouldn’t need it. Not as much as…” Peter trailed off with a wince as Hill and Natasha’s eyebrows both grew dramatically more pointed. “Never mind.”

“No, continue,” Natasha prompted.

“Um… I…” Peter’s foot started to bounce under the table. “Just…”

“We won’t be angry with you,” said Hill gently. “You can talk to us.”

“It’s just… Other people need therapy more that I do. I mean, I haven’t been through as much as… y’know… anyone else here, and… and I don’t want to take up time when I should be able to deal with things by myself!” Peter clapped a hand over his mouth, alarmed by his own vigor.

“Ah,” Natasha said, her eyes softening. “See, here’s the thing, Peter. Everything is relative. Maybe you weren’t a child assassin for the KGB, maybe you weren’t frozen alive for 70 years, maybe you weren’t conditioned into a toy HYDRA soldier, but the struggles you’ve faced are just as valid. You lost one set of parents, then another. You’ve been hurt by people who were supposed to protect you, to be your friend. You’ve experienced trauma, and you are allowed to feel pain. You are allowed to grieve, to be angry about what you’ve been through. It was significant, and accepting that is integral to recovering from it. You are allowed to receive help, because you deserve it. Do you understand?”

Peter gaped at her for a few moments, then stared at her some more.

“I think you broke him,” Hill commented. “Right before finals week, too. Good job, Nat.”

Natasha poked Hill with her middle finger. Peter usually would’ve laughed, but he was too busy digesting Natasha’s words. Hill reached out and patted Peter’s shoulder.

“I know it’s a lot, but she’s right. Your experiences are just as valid as the rest of ours, asking for help is not being a bother, and you definitely shouldn’t have to deal with things alone.”

Peter rubbed his forehead. “How do I… What if you’re…”

“Lying?” Natasha tilted her head. “And what would we get out of that?”

Peter mulled over it and failed to come up with a logical reply. Hill and Natasha looked faintly smug, and with that, he knew they’d won. His shoulders drooped in defeat. Hill’s expression neutralized; there was a hint of pity in her eyes.

“How about this,” she said. “You take some time to think, and after finals week, in about ten days, you’ll start going to therapy regularly. Does that sound okay?”

Peter finally nodded, his gaze set on his soggy pancakes, unmoving.

“Peter,” said Hill, very gently.

“Yeah?” Peter mumbled.

“Have we upset you?”

Peter shook his head, burying his face in his hands. When he spoke, his voice was muffled. “I just don’t know if I believe you. That I deserve it… as much as… everyone else.”

“I understand,” said Natasha. “People - Clint was the first one - told me that I wasn’t a bad person for what I’ve done. I trust Clint with my life, but that was not something I could believe. It’s confusing, painful, to hear someone you trust say something that opposes the way you think.”

“Yeah,” Peter said, sounding tiny. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Hill assured him. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay.”

\----

That afternoon, after school, Peter headed out to the sidewalk, where to his surprise, he found Bucky waiting in his wheelchair. Bucky didn’t come to pick him up often anymore; if Peter had to guess, he would say that Bucky felt too vulnerable surrounded by the crowds of the city. He figured it was hard to adjust to being below eye level.

“Hi,” he said, smiling a little and rocking back and forth on his feet.

“Hi,” Bucky replied. He looked vigilant, but his eyes weren’t panicked. “How was your day.”

Peter shrugged, plucking at the hem of his shirt. “It was okay. Everyone’s freaking out about finals next week, but other than that, things are fine.”

“Are you freaking out about finals,” Bucky asked, studying Peter before pivoting his chair and moving off down the sidewalk.

Peter took a few quick steps to keep up, settling into a nice pace by Bucky’s side. “Not that much.”

“Good. You’re smart and studying hard. You’ll be fine.”

Peter ducked his head modestly and twirled the extra slack of his backpack strap. “Thanks.”

“Just telling the truth.” Bucky paused, glancing up at Peter again; Peter tucked his busy hands in his pockets. “You’re worried about something else, then.”

Peter didn’t reply right away, which Bucky didn’t seem to mind.

“Um… Natasha and Hill… want me to go to therapy regularly.”

Bucky tilted his head in consideration. “And how does that make you feel.”

When Peter looked down at Bucky, his lips were twitching, and Peter let out a surprised laugh. Bucky’s eyes crinkled for a moment before he smoothed his face out.

“Seriously. What do you think about it.”

Peter drew his shoulders up. “I dunno, really. I mean… I guess if they want me to…”

“A few weeks ago you were telling me that therapy is good. That you went sometimes. Did you change your mind.”

“No, I don’t… I just… What if someone else needs it more? I don’t want to be selfish.”

Bucky pursed his lips before replying. “What if it’s the other way around.”

“What do you mean?” asked Peter.

“You’re too giving. You always put everyone else before yourself and you’re doing them a disservice by it. Because you can’t help anyone if you destroy yourself. Being overly selfless can be just as bad as being overly selfish. I told you before, you’re too much like Steve. He checks himself out of medical because he doesn’t want to take up supplies. You won’t go to therapy enough because you think you’re impeding on other people’s time. But it’s _your_ time. You deserve it. Need it. Even if you were being selfish. Which you aren’t.”

“But… But how would I know if I _was_ being too selfish?”

The corners of Bucky’s lips pulled tight. “That. It’s the same thing that makes you a good person.”

Peter looked over at him, confused.

“You question yourself,” Bucky explained. “You worry about being selfish. About being bad. It means you care. You can’t be evil if you care about being evil.”

Peter’s mind felt mildly blown. That actually… made sense? A little bit? He needed it think it through. Bucky smiled a tiny bit.

“To relate it to your history class. your brain has checks and balances.”

Peter nodded, mostly out of reflex. He was silent the rest of the way back to the Tower, which, to his relief, Bucky accepted without question. His mind was spinning; he couldn’t stop thinking about how Bucky had a point. He _had_ been the one to tell Bucky that therapy was nice and helpful, maybe he _wasn’t_ being too selfish if he was being conscious about it, and maybe he _did_ need more therapy, since everyone kept having to talk to him about his issues. He didn’t want to worry them, after all. He was still pretty sure that everyone else needed therapy more than he did; he hadn’t been through as much as the others, but Natasha _had_ said that things were relative… Crap. Maybe she and Hill were more right than he’d originally given them credit for.

“You’re right,” he admitted to Bucky, breaking the silence as they entered the lobby of the Tower. “I think Hill and Natasha might’ve been too. I should go to therapy more often.”

Bucky inclined his head, looking satisfied. Peter gave Tina a little wave as they headed into the elevator on the right.

“Which floor would you prefer?” JARVIS inquired politely. 

“Do you want to practice with your braces?” Peter asked Bucky, brightening a little.

“Homework first,” Bucky replied gently. “Me n’ Steve’s floor, please, Building JARVIS.”

“Of course, Sergeant Barnes. I’ll notify Mr. Stark to expect Mr. Parker and yourself in the lab within the next few hours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might notice that the character Tina is mentioned every now and then in this series; she's one of the receptionists in the lobby of the Tower, and she's based off of one of my neighbors, who is great but can never know that she's an OC in my fanfiction. Please don't tell her.
> 
> I hate to say this because I'll probably jinx myself, but it's fairly safe to assume that I'll post a new chapter of this fic every Sunday. (Usually in the evening, but today in the morning since I'll be busy later.)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Comments are appreciated.
> 
> Unfortunately, I have no more new pony stories because my teaching-kiddos job is just a summer job and that's over now, so here's an old pony story:  
> The first pony I ever took a lesson on was tiny, rotund, and mean- his name was Meatball, and I loved him even though he tried to eat me. I thought he was gigantic and that I was the king of the world sitting on top of him, but that was because I was _really_ tiny. Super-duper tiny. If I saw Meatball today, he'd probably come up to my waist at most.   
>  Anyway, I climbed up onto Meatball, who promptly tried to eat my leg, squish me against the fence, and then eat another pony since I refused to fall off. It was the most fun tiny little me had ever had, and that was it. It was ponies for life. (My mom was like _oh no_...) I have no pictures of Meatball, nor do I know where he ended up, but he looked sort of like this:  
>   
>  He was squishy and precious. I once succeeded in poking his butt, and he nearly killed me for it, but it was totally worth it. Squish squish.
> 
> (I'll have new pony stories in a month or two; bear with me haha)


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to the workshop. Mild hilarity and accomplishment ensues.

It took Peter exactly an hour and forty five minutes to finish his studying for the day; he’d rushed through the first few pages of his chemistry notes but Bucky had made him go back and read through them thoroughly, insisting that Peter wasn’t allowed to slack off on his behalf since Peter’s time before finals was limited, while he had plenty of time to practice with his braces and he therefore wasn’t going to die if he waited an extra hour or two. Peter honestly admired his patience. Thus, Bucky watched serenely as Peter scrambled to shove his papers back into his bag and zip it closed. Steve looked up from his sketchpad at the flurry of movement.

“Finished?”

“Yep!” Peter exclaimed, tossing his overstuffed backpack towards the door and making sure the brakes were locked on Bucky’s wheelchair.

“Do you want me to help you up, or do you want Peter to do it?” Steve asked Bucky, tucking away his sketchbook.

Bucky shrugged indifferently, his face hard-lined; Steve ambled over and took the initiative to scoop Bucky off the couch and set him gently in his chair. He pressed a kiss to Bucky’s cheek, and Bucky’s frown softened.

“Ready?” asked Peter, bouncing over to the door and pulling it open.

Bucky smiled a little at Peter’s enthusiasm and disengaged the brake lock, wheeling himself out into the hall with Steve following closely. Peter shut the door behind them and trotted ahead to get the elevator. He tapped his fingers on his thighs as the three of them descended to the workshop; when the elevator doors slid open, they were immediately accosted by the bots.

Butterfingers went right for Bucky, who looked pleased to see him; Dum-E plucked at Peter’s hair, which had faded to blond-green with visible brown roots. 

“Yeah, I need to get a haircut,” Peter said.

Dum-E chirped and rolled away, disappearing behind a row of shelves. Steve stepped forward, peering around the shop.

“Tony? Are you in here?”

Tony popped up from behind three-quarters of a car with a mouthful of screws, a small screwdriver behind his ear, and a large one in hand.

“Hnth, bnph ooo!” he spat the screws out into his other hand and grinned. “Sup?”

“You really shouldn’t keep those in your mouth,” said Steve.

Tony rolled his eyes. “It’s fine, mom. Don’t be such a worrywart.”

Steve gave Tony a reproachful look. “In ‘28, one of Buck’s uncles was working under a cart with nails in his mouth. One of his pals came in and asked him a question, and when he answered, he swallowed one by mistake. He died a few days later. ”

Tony looked slightly taken aback before waving the story off. “We have x-rays and shit. If I swallow one, we’ll find it and take it out before I hemorrhage to death.”

Steve shrugged. “It’s your grave.”

“Barnes, your boyfriend is dramatic as hell.”

Bucky’s lips twitched. “Me n’ Stevie found Keiran dead on the floor. We were ten. Guess it left an impression.”

Tony was speechless for a few moments before he settled on, “What the fuck.”

Bucky lifted an eyebrow.

“No _wonder_ the two of you are so fucked up. Finding dead bodies when you were ten? That actually explains a lot. Jesus.”

“I think. It was the brainwashing that really did me in. Torture. ‘lectrocution. Ya’ know. Not a fun time.”

Tony looked over at Steve helplessly.

“You brought this upon yourself,” Steve told him sternly. “You really shouldn’t keep screws in your mouth.”

Tony brought a palm to his forehead. “Just kill me dead already. You’re the worst. I’m evicting you, go back to Brooklyn where you belong.”

Butterfingers made a noise of protest and attached himself even more firmly to Bucky’s metal arm.

“Don’t be a brat,” Tony warned. “You can’t go with them. You’re staying here.”

Butterfingers let out a series of angry clicks.

“Don’t talk back to me,” Tony said sternly. “You stay in the workshop. That’s final.”

Butterfingers made a screeching sound and launched himself at the workbench, clumsily picking up wrenches and tossing them around the room. One almost caught Tony in the stomach; Steve quickly stepped forward and caught it before it made contact. Tony stared at Butterfingers in disbelief.

“Are you kidding me? You’re worse than my _actual_ child. Go to your room.”

Butterfingers picked up a hammer and waved it menacingly.

Tony narrowed his eyes. “I swear to god, I’ll cut your power. Room. _Now!_ ”

Butterfingers threw the hammer, then sulked off to his charging station. Bucky looked both touched and mildly amused.

“Aw. He likes me more than you.”

“Shut up, Barnes,” Tony sighed. “Dum-E, be a dear and pick up your brother’s mess. What are you doing behind Peter? Oh my god, are those _scissors?_ ”

It was just about then that Peter became aware of a snipping sound coming from behind his head. He turned slowly to find Dum-E about six inches away from him, wielding a large pair of scissors with a clump of faded blue hair hanging from them. _His_ hair.

“Dum-E, you are in _so much trouble_ ,” Tony gritted out. “I thought I hid those! Where the hell did you find them? No, don’t answer that. Could this day get any worse? Oh god, Peter, your hair…”

Dum-E scooted back, at least having the decency to look mildly ashamed. 

“It’s okay,” Peter said. “I did say that I needed a haircut, so it’s really my fault. Don’t worry about it.”

“Your Hair Club is going to kill me,” Tony whispered.

Bucky let out a small laugh, and then a bigger one, and everyone turned to look at him as he snickered mirthfully, even Butterfingers. Tony looked surprised; Steve looked like he was about to cry, hopefully in a good way. Bucky then looked over at Peter and gave a grin that Peter had seen _maybe_ three times, at least one of which was in a history textbook. It was unsettling; it made him look like a stranger, but also oddly familiar. His eyes lifted into smiles of their own, and Steve wiped a hand across his damp face.

“Aw, don’t cry, Stevie,” said Bucky lightly, reaching out and grabbing Steve’s hand. “Seriously. Don’t. Stark won’t ever let you hear the tail of it.”

Steve made a choked sound and ducked his head. Amazingly, Tony said nothing, likely because he was still fuming at Dum-E.

“Lemme see the new hair.” Bucky gestured for Peter to turn.

Peter did so, and after a few seconds he swiveled back to find an expression of true horror on Tony’s face and mild dismay on Bucky’s.

“It’s that bad?” he asked.

Tony nodded, wincing.

“How do you feel about shaving your head,” asked Bucky.

“Oh,” Peter said. “It’s _that_ bad.”

“You could look into hair extensions?” Tony tried. “Do they work with short hair?”

“Not if there’s nowhere to clip them,” Bucky replied. “And. Matching the color would be hard.”

“Looks like you’re getting a buzzcut, kiddo,” Tony told Peter. “My apologies.”

Peter shrugged. “It’s not the end of the world. I mean, it’ll grow back in a couple months.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Peter felt a nudge and looked over to see Dum-E, who was holding something in his claw. He offered Peter the object, which turned out to be a single ice cube.

“Um. Thanks?” Peter said quizzically.

“Aww!” Tony grinned. “It’s an apology ice cube. They’re the hardest thing for him to pick up, so he only goes through the trouble when he wants you to forgive him.”

Dum-E chirped angelically, and Peter smiled at him. “Thanks, Dum-E.”

Tony clapped his hands together. “Okay. Ready for the braces, Barnes?”

Bucky nodded, and Tony beckoned everyone to the back of the workshop, where a narrow chute with black pipes as handrails was standing, the braces idle beside it. Bucky tilted his head, studying the setup, then gave another nod before looking up at Steve.

“You gotta let go of my hand there, pal.”

Steve startled a bit and quickly released Bucky’s hand, retreating. “Sorry.”

“He’s like a kicked puppy,” Tony commented, getting a glare from Steve. He lifted his hands placatingly. “But really, look at those eyes.”

“Tell me about it,” Bucky grumbled.

“You’re not even looking,” Tony said, watching Bucky position himself behind the braces.

“Don’t have to,” Bucky replied. “Him and Peter. Always with the big, sad goddamn eyes.”

“I don’t have sad eyes,” Peter found himself saying. “I mean… Do I?”

Tony regarded him with judgement. “Kiddo, sometimes I want to cry just looking at you.”

Peter looked dismayed. “Should I wear sunglasses?”

Tony facepalmed.

“Is… Is that a yes?”

“No,” Bucky said, then activated his braces with the press of a finger. They clicked into place around his lower legs and waist, then finished fastening once he attached his electrodes and tilted forwards to stand. He nearly fell back, but he shot a hand out and caught himself on the end of the chute. 

“It’s a no,” Tony said to Peter. He then added, “Good job, Barnes.”

“Fuck you, Stark,” Bucky shot back automatically.

“ _Buck_ ,” Steve said. “He was being nice.”

“Oops.” Bucky shrugged. “Reflex.”

Tony snorted a little; Steve looked relieved that he wasn’t offended.

“So how do I walk,” asked Bucky.

Peter stepped forward, unlocking the brakes on Bucky’s chair and moving it away from the chute. “You should practice balancing while you’re standing still first,” he replied tentatively. 

Bucky gave a nod of concession.

“Okay, well, you want to be as straight as possible. Slouching will unbalance you.”

Bucky’s lips twitched. “As straight as possible.”

“Yeah.”

“Might be hard.” Bucky paused. “Seeing as I’m queer.”

Steve groaned, and Tony clapped his hands together in delight.

“Terminator made a gay joke! J, save that for me. This is the best day of my life. This is the content we all deserve.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Steve said. “He’s insufferable once he gets going.”

“But. You love it,” Bucky replied seriously, then _winked_.

“ _Oh my god_ , this is amazing,” said Tony. “Peter, isn’t this beautiful?”

Peter nodded, trying and failing to remain impassive; he cracked a smile as he met Bucky’s amused eyes. Bucky seemed to allow himself a few more moments of entertainment before he schooled himself back to discipline and straightened his spine as much as he could.

“It helps if you spread your legs further apart,” Peter offered. 

Bucky raised an eyebrow, and Tony fell off his stool laughing. Peter’s cheeks turned a terrible shade of red.

“It makes you more balanced,” he squeaked, mortified.

Tony proceeded to choke on some oxygen; Steve looked a solid mix of worried for him, empathic for Peter, and put out by the general level of jokes and innuendos.

“Stop stealing the show,” Bucky griped, glaring down at Tony. “I’m standing and nobody’s even watching.”

Peter and Steve spun to look at Bucky, who wiggled his hands in a manner reminiscent of Clint before wavering and gripping the rail in front of him. Steve’s face split into a grin.

“Good job, Buck!”

“That was great!” Peter added, his cheeks still pink, mostly now out of joy rather than utter embarrassment. 

Tony wheezed some sort of congratulations; Bucky looked unimpressed and mildly judgemental, maybe because Tony was still half-dying on the floor.

“Seven point two seconds,” he said, looking back to Steve and Peter. “Now. I’ll try for ten.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments are appreciated.
> 
> Since I my summer job with the ponies has ended and it'll be a few weeks before I'm back with equine friends again, have a goat story:
> 
> As some of you may know, my other job (year-round) is caring for goats. I've been doing it for seven years now, and I've loved every bit of it! At this point, the goats and I know each other quite well, and I've become the king of giving scratches. Every time I'm around, all the goats (except for one, who's generally pretty introverted) line up for their shoulder-scratches, and of course I have to indulge them. They're absolutely precious, how could I not?   
> The only problem is that this is, in fact, a _job_ ; I have work to do, which the goats don't seem to fully understand. They think that as long as I'm around, my duty is to give scratches. Well, yes, it is, but it's also to refill their hay bags, replenish their waters, clean up their poop, etc. I can't get a lot of work done because they insist on receiving scratches, and I'm terrible at saying no to them. The look of disappointment on their faces when I ignore them is unbearable, really. So I'm oftentimes not a terribly efficient worker. Oops? They're just so cute! _You_ try denying this face scratches:  
> 
> 
> And no, before anyone asks, I don't do goat yoga! I don't know a lot about yoga, but I'm pretty sure the point is to relax and concentrate, and it's pretty hard to do that if you have baby goats bouncing on you. Unless that's the point... but why would you want to ignore baby goats? (Our baby goats are too big for that now, anyway- believe me, those little hooves can _hurt_!)


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hair Club is back in session! Also, meet Noor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long chapter, folks! I had more time to write than usual, and I fully took advantage of it! I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Expressions in other languages have hyperlinks; just hover your mouse to see the translation! If you're on mobile, translations are also in the end notes.

“Well,” Pepper said, examining the back of Peter’s head carefully. “I suppose it could be worse.”

Natasha nodded in agreement. “We can work with it.”

“Undercut?” said Hill, brushing her fingers over the nearly bald spot that Dum-E had created above Peter’s neck.

“Undercut,” Natasha confirmed.

“What is an undercut,” asked Bucky.

“Shaved on the sides, long on top,” Hill replied. “We should re-dye his hair while we’re at it, shouldn’t we?”

Pepper brightened. “We could get it professionally done! I’m due for highlights, anyway.”

“Can. I get highlights too.” Bucky inquired unobtrusively.

“Of course!” Pepper beamed at him. “I think you’ll like Noor; she usually does my hair. I’ll give her a call now and see if she’s busy.”

Bucky nodded. He reached down and brushed his fingers across Peter’s hair, frowning slightly at the uneven patch. “Are you going to do blue again.”

Peter tilted his head, which shifted Bucky’s hand. “I don’t know. If I wanted a different color, would it work? Since it’s still sort of blue?”

“It’s really more green now,” Natasha said. “If you bleached your hair again, you could do a different color.”

Peter hummed in consideration. “Is it bad to bleach my whole head again?”

“Bleaching your hair too often will damage it,” Hill answered. “You’d probably be okay bleaching it again, but you’ll have to use regenerative shampoo and coconut oil.”

Peter brightened. “Coconut oil was fun last time.”

Bucky smiled a bit at that. “Confirm.”

Natasha raised her eyebrows at that.

“One of those days, Barnes?” Hill asked.

Bucky shrugged. “Had therapy earlier. It was. Hard on the brain.”

Pepper patted his shoulder empathetically.

“Steve. Asked if we should invite the Olds over,” he continued haltingly. “But it’s bingo night. And they always look forward to it. Didn’t want to bother them.”

“I’m sure they would’ve been equally as happy to spend time with you,” Pepper told him, her eyes soft and genuine. “I’ll be right back, I’m going to call Noor.”

“Hey, Barnes,” said Hill.

Bucky swiveled his head to look at her. “Yes.”

“Good job. That was a lot of words for a hard brain day.”

Bucky’s eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. “Thanks. I’m getting better. At talking.”

Peter’s phone buzzed; he pulled it out and grinned at the message. “Ned wants to know if we can dog-sit when he’s on vacation. Can we?”

“I’d ask Pepper, but I’m guessing it’s going to be a yes,” said Natasha. 

Hill nodded. “Almost certainly.”

Peter peered over to where Pepper was still on the phone in her and Tony’s bedroom. He bounced his foot in anticipation, which bounced his entire leg. Bucky touched his shoulder, drawing his attention.

“Can. The puppy stay with me and Steve. Some of the time.”

Peter’s smile grew wider. “Sure! Quinn really likes you.”

Bucky looked content. Peter heard gentle footsteps and swiveled to see Pepper returning; he put on his best begging face.

“Can we dog-sit for Ned while he’s on vacation? Please, please, pretty please?”

Pepper looked amused by the enthusiasm. “When is he leaving and when is he coming back?”

“He leaves the day after finals and comes back six days later! Pleeeeaaaase?” Peter blinked vigorously.

“I don’t see why not,” Pepper said, and Peter pumped his arm in the air before frantically replying to Ned’s text.

“Thanks, mom!” he added in afterthought.

Pepper gave him an adoring look. 

“Is Noor free?” Hill asked her.

“She says she can make it over around six forty five, so we have fifty minutes to eat dinner,” Pepper replied. “How does everyone feel about pizza?”

“Хорошо,” Bucky replied.

“Замечательный,” Natasha said with a smirk.

“好啊,” Hill provided.

“Bien?” said Peter questioningly. Bucky patted his head in approval.

Pepper gave them a faintly exasperated yet amused look. “For that, someone else has to call in the order.”

“Not it,” Natasha said immediately, and Hill and Peter both scrambled to touch their noses.

“Looks like it’s on you, Barnes,” Pepper said, smiling.

Bucky looked grumpily perplexed. “Says who.”

“We did noses,” Hill informed him.

“What the hell is noses.”

“Whoever touches their nose last loses,” Peter explained, sounding apologetic. 

Bucky glared halfheartedly at everyone. “That ain’t fair. Nobody told me the rules.”

“Would it have made a difference?” Natasha teased, and Bucky narrowed his eyes further.

“Are you calling me slow.”

“I mean, you’re getting up there in the numbers,” Hill said seriously. “What, a hundred and one now?”

“Are you calling me _old_ , Mashka,” Bucky asked, sounding terribly offended.

“I’d never,” Hill said, putting a hand on her chest. “But you still have to call for pizza, unless you need to opt out for reasons.”

Bucky pressed his lips together. “I can do it.” 

“Would you like me to dial the number for pizza delivery?” JARVIS asked him.

“Yes. Thank you, building JARVIS.”

“My pleasure,” JARVIS replied cordially. 

Bucky brought his phone to his ear as it began to ring. When the call was answered, he took an even breath before he spoke. “I would like. Two large pizzas delivered. One cheese, one pepperoni. Please. Yes. That is all.”

There was a pause, and then he said, “To Stark Tower.”

Then, through his teeth, “No. This ain’t a joke.”

And then, with his Brooklyn roots clearly shining through, “The big goddamn tower. With the fucking ‘A’ on it.”

Hill snorted, and Peter swallowed down a giggle. Natasha looked delighted; Pepper was covering her mouth and probably an equally amused expression. Bucky hung up and glared a bit at them.

“You call me old. Make me order pizza. And then mock me. I feel. So supported.”

Pepper laughed, her eyes ever-kind. “You know we love you, Barnes.”

Bucky’s face softened, and he inclined his head.

“Good,” Natasha said. “Otherwise we might’ve had to remind you.”

Bucky wrinkled his nose. “Group hugs: strongly denied.”

“Confirm,” Hill said, grinning, and then let out an undignified squeak as her ear was pinched between sneaky metal fingers.

“How do we feel about Golden Girls?” Pepper asked, picking up the remote.

“Ça marche,” Natasha replied.

“Eccellente,” said Hill.

“Kulağa iyi geliyor,” Bucky answered.

“Um… Sure?” Peter said, running out of new languages to reply with.

“Because Peter answered in a language I understand, he gets to pick the episode,” said Pepper with a smile.

“Bold of you to assume we’re only watching one episode,” Natasha told her.

“We only have time for one before Noor comes,” Pepper pointed out.

“Noor likes The Golden Girls,” Hill said.

“That’s true,” Pepper conceded. “But when she comes, she gets to pick the episode.”

Natasha looked faintly disappointed.

\----

The five of them were just finishing up their pizza when JARVIS politely interrupted to tell them that Noor had arrived; the elevator doors then opened to reveal a smiling woman with rosy cheeks and warm hazelnut skin.

“Pepper!” Noor exclaimed, opening her arms as Pepper hurried over to hug her. “How are you?”

“I’m doing well,” Pepper replied warmly. “How about you? You must be so busy with the new job!”

“You got a new job?” Natasha asked, standing up, and Noor covered her mouth.

“Natalie? Oh my god, I haven’t seen you in… at least a year or two! You look great!”

Natasha waved the compliment away, wrapping an arm around Noor in a quick hug. “Tell me about the new job,” she urged.

“Oh, it’s not that big a deal. It’s just a teaching job at CUNY, it’s not that-”

“Not a big deal? Teaching at CUNY? You’re too modest,” Hill told Noor seriously. “That’s amazing.”

Noor’s cheeks turned even pinker, both from the compliment and in delight at seeing Hill. “Thank you, Maria. It’s been a couple months, how are you?”

“Oh, same old,” Hill replied. “No complaints. You?”

“I’m doing well! Busier with the new job, but nothing unmanageable.”

“When did you start?” asked Natasha.

“At the beginning of second semester,” Noor said. “One of the professors had to leave unexpectedly, so I was hired. It was just going to be a temporary thing, but they asked me to come back next year!”

“Congratulations!” Pepper exclaimed.

“Thank you!” Noor grinned. “Enough about my life. You said you have a hair emergency?”

“We do,” confirmed Pepper. “My son, Peter, - I’ve told you about Peter - got an impromptu haircut from one of Tony’s robots. We were hoping an undercut would fix it, but you’re the expert here.”

“Let’s take a look,” Noor said, making her way over to where Peter was standing beside Bucky. “I don’t think I’ve met either of you, though I’ve heard plenty about you, Peter. I’m Noor.”

“Hi,” Peter said, somewhat shy. “Nice to meet you.”

“You as well.” She shook his hand gently, then turned to Bucky. 

“Jim,” Bucky offered, his shoulders stiff. 

Noor smiled, her eyes warm. “Peter and Jim. Good to meet both of you. Do you mind if I take a look at your hair, Peter?”

Peter shook his head and turned around quickly.

“Hmm.” Noor tilted her head. “We can work with this. It’ll have to be pretty short on the sides and in the back, but it should look nice.”

“And, um, I was hoping to dye it purple?” Peter asked, fidgeting with his hands.

“We can certainly do that,” Noor said, and Peter relaxed.

“Clint is going to be insufferable,” Natasha sighed. 

Hill snickered. “Probably. Noses on Clint-wrangling duty.”

Everyone’s finger shot up to their nose, including Bucky; this time, Peter was the last one, and he wrinkled his brow in confusion.

“What do I have to do on Clint-wrangling duty?” he asked.

“In this case, you’ll probably have to tell him that you didn’t dye your hair purple because you like him best, you just like the color purple,” said Natasha. “And then you have to tell him to shut up whenever he brags about it.”

Peter deflated. “I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”

“You’re too good,” Hill said. “I nominate JARVIS for Clint-wrangling duty. He technically hasn’t touched his nose.”

“Pain and suffering,” said JARVIS dryly, and Noor burst into laughter.

“I forgot about the AI in your ceiling.” She seemed to enjoy a few more moments of merriment before opening the bag she’d been carrying and pulling out scissors and clippers.

“Here’s a chair,” Natasha said, plopping one in the middle of the room for Peter to sit in.

“I’d usually dye your hair first, but since we’re cutting it so short, there’s no point in wasting the dye,” Noor told Peter as he took a seat. 

Peter nodded; she pulled out a barber’s cape and wrapped it around his shoulders.

“Maria, would you fill this spray bottle?” Noor asked, and Hill strode off to the sink.

Noor studied Peter’s head one last time from all angles, and when Hill returned, she got to work. Clumps of hair fell to Peter’s lap and down to the ground as Noor buzzed the sides and back of his head; he relaxed into the chatter around him. At some point, The Golden Girls started playing on the TV again, an episode of Noor’s choice. 

Before he knew it, Pepper was handing him a little mirror so he could inspect his head; his hair was still fairly long on top, but the sides were shorter than they’d ever been. It looked pretty neat, he decided, and he smiled.

“You like it?” Noor asked.

He nodded quickly. “It’s cool!”

“Excellent,” said Noor. “Now we just have to bleach and dye it. Jim over there was kind enough to mix the bleach for me, so that’s all ready to go.”

Bucky’s lips twitched up a little as he handed her the bowl of bleach.

“Thank you,” she said to him warmly. “While Peter’s hair bleaches, would you like me to get started on your highlights?”

“Yes. Please.”

Noor smiled at him, then began to work the bleach through Peter’s hair. When she was finished, she covered his head and sent him off to the couch. She beckoned to Bucky, who wheeled over and pressed his brake locks into place.

“Just so you know. I used to. Not be good at this.” Bucky paused. “I’m better now. Mostly.”

“I’ll go nice and slow,” said Noor, seeming to understand what he was getting at.

“Смотрите, пожалуйста, Наталья. Я не хочу причинять ей боль,” Bucky muttered, and Natasha sidled over casually to stand near him.

“Ты не будешь,” she said. “Но если это заставляет вас чувствовать себя лучше.”

“Спасибо.”

\----

Bucky looked mildly proud of himself after making it through without pulling out any knives; Natasha put a hand on her hip and said, “I told you so,” before returning to the couch and informing him that he would pay for making her stand the whole time. When Peter got back from washing out the bleach, his hair was as blond as Thor’s, and Noor got right to work with the purple dye.

“Purple will be a good color for you,” she said, working the dye down to his roots. “It’ll look nice with those brown eyes.”

Peter’s cheeks turned their usual pink. “I picked it ‘cause I want good luck for finals, and my friend MJ said that purple is lucky.”

“Did you consider that she might’ve just wanted to see you with purple hair?” Hill asked, grinning.

“... No,” Peter replied. “Do you think that’s why she said it? She really seemed to think that it’s lucky.”

“She’s quite deceitful,” Natasha said cheerfully. “She’ll go far.”

“But… is purple lucky?” Peter asked, somewhat perturbed.

“It often represented royalty, luxury, and wealth,” Noor offered. “I’d say those things are lucky.”

“Good,” Peter said in relief.

“You don’t need luck, you know. You’re real smart. You’ll do fine,” Bucky reminded him.

“Better safe than sorry?” Peter tried.

“Fair enough,” said Hill.

“You’re all set, Peter,” Noor said, waving him to his feet. “I’ll do Pepper’s highlights while you’re waiting, okay?”

Peter nodded, heading over to sit on the end of the couch next to Bucky’s chair. The episode of The Golden Girls where they get arrested was playing on the TV; at some point, Hill had made a bowl of popcorn and had long since resigned to letting Natasha steal large handfuls of it. She offered some to Peter and Bucky, who helped Natasha devour the entire bowl as Peter’s hair turned purple.

Peter’s phone buzzed; he opened a snapchat from Ned that showed Quinn running around with his sister’s shoe and Grace scrambling after her in attempt to get it back. Peter laughed and showed it to Bucky, whose entire face melted a bit.

“What are you laughing at?” Pepper asked.

“Quinn stole Grace’s - Ned’s sister’s - shoe and she can’t catch Quinn to get it back,” Peter replied, grinning.

“I’m assuming Quinn is a dog?” Noor asked with twinkling eyes.

Peter nodded. “She’s just a puppy and she’s _adorable_ , and I get to dog-sit her after finals!”

“The rest of us won’t admit it, but we’re just as excited as he is,” said Hill. “It’s a damn cute puppy.”

“As cute as cat Eleanor,” Bucky said. “And makes less holes. In clothing.”

“Is that what happened to your light gray shirt?” Natasha mused. “I was wondering.”

Bucky shrugged. “I hadn’t seen her. In a while. She was displeased.”

“My cat tends to do that with furniture,” said Noor. “Once, I got home past three in the morning, and my throw pillows were in shreds.”

“Oh no!” Pepper said, but Noor waved a plastic-gloved hand.

“They were hideous. I was looking for an excuse to get rid of them.” She smiled, and her phone beeped. “Peter, that’s your timer. Why don’t you go rinse out the dye in the sink? I’m almost done with Pepper.”

Peter stood up and hurried over to the bathroom sink, turning on the water and uncovering his hair, then sticking his head under the faucet.

“Wash until the water runs clear,” Noor called. 

He nodded and hit his head on the rim of the sink before realizing she couldn’t even see him. “Okay!”

It took close to ten minutes, but the runoff slowly turned clear, and he turned off the water. He straightened up to see Natasha waiting with an old towel, which he took gratefully.

“You’ll have to cover your pillow tonight,” she said. “Unless you want a purple pillow.”

He laughed a little. “I don’t. My pillow’s green, so I think it would look weird.”

“Not as weird as red,” Natasha told him. “Red looks like bloodstains.”

“That’s true.” He toweled his hair until it was mostly dry and sticking up in all different directions, then followed Natasha out of the bathroom.

Noor was packing up; she smiled widely at the sight of Peter. “The color looks great! Nice and lucky.”

“Thanks!” Peter said, blushing a bit as per usual. “Thank you for doing it.”

“No problem. You guys call me any time, alright? It’s always a pleasure to come by.”

“Thank you for giving up your evening,” said Pepper graciously, pulling Noor in for a hug. “It was wonderful to see you.”

“You too,” Noor replied. “Talk to you soon, okay? Maria, I’ll see you at the library next month?”

“I’ll be there, barring a world-threatening event,” Hill said; her tone was dry, but her expression was genuine.

“Good. The kids missed you last time.” Noor squeezed her shoulder, embraced Natasha quickly, and waved to Peter and Bucky before disappearing into the elevator.

“Library,” Bucky said questioningly, looking at Hill. “Kids.”

“Noor and I volunteer at the library’s storytime sessions every first weekend of the month,” Hill replied nonchalantly. “I missed our last one because of that emergency trip to DC.”

Peter stared at Hill and tried to picture her reading books to children. She must’ve noticed, because her lips twitched and she raised her eyebrows.

“What, you don’t see it? I’m too scary?”

Natasha laughed as Peter tried to find some words. “It helps that she wears pink cardigans.”

Peter gaped a bit; Bucky looked like he was thinking _very_ hard. His eyebrows were almost touching, they were furrowed so deeply.

“Are you alright, Barnes?” Pepper asked, somewhat worried.

“Does. Wearing pink. Really make you less scary.”

“That’s a hard question,” said Pepper seriously. “I think it can, but not necessarily for good reasons. Pink is a soft color, so it’s less frightening in that sense, but it’s also been intertwined with femininity in our society. The idea that pink is less scary is connected with the idea that women are weaker and less intimidating than men.”

Bucky frowned. “Oh.”

“Did I answer your question well enough? You still look a bit confused.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Bucky stated. “Hill and Romanov are the scariest people I know. And they’re women.”

Natasha pressed her hand to her heart, and Hill looked proud of herself.

“These things generally don’t make much sense,” Pepper replied.

“Hm.” Bucky paused. “Can men wear pink.”

“Anybody can wear whatever color they want, regardless of their gender,” said Pepper firmly. “If you want to wear pink, go for it.”

Bucky pursed his lips in consideration. “Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The majority of expressions in other languages are the result of google translate, so feel free to correct any errors! Most of them (should) mean things along the lines of "good" "sure" "that's fine" etc. with the exception of the phrases below:
> 
> Смотрите, пожалуйста, Наталья. Я не хочу причинять ей боль- Watch me, please, Natalia. I don’t want to hurt her.  
> Ты не будешь- You won’t.  
> Но если это заставляет вас чувствовать себя лучше- But if it makes you feel better.  
> Спасибо- Thank you.
> 
> \---
> 
> First of all, the lovely [Aprilmallick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aprilmallick/pseuds/Aprilmallick) is writing Peter's backstory in this verse! Read it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15847353/chapters/36908487)! (I'm listed as a co-creator, but really, all credit goes to April - I just made a few suggestions here and there!)
> 
> Secondly (and I can't believe it), this series, which I keep all in one google doc, has surpassed 400 pages! I never thought it'd happen, but here we are! Thank you all so much for your support; you are the reason I'm still going strong :) <3
> 
> I'm also pleased to tell you that I have the rest of the chapters pretty much entirely planned out, so you can expect the chapter count to stay right around 40! The last chapter won't be a chapter as much as an essay that analyzes the ending I chose, which I think will be important for a lot of people to read. Just to remind everyone, I promised a happy ending (which I will follow through with), but I never explicitly promised how that ending would arrive. Keep in mind that it's unrealistic for Bucky to make a full physical recovery, and I try to strive for realism in my work. Really, this fic is about interpersonal relationships and emotional health, and I request that you take a moment and reflect on the implications of the ending that _you_ expect. Yes, fanfiction is for fun, but it also shows a lot about people's mindsets and human nature. With that in consideration, I want to deliver the ending that we need to see.
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading! Comments are appreciated. My apologies; I don't have time for a pony or goat story after doing all the hyperlinks!


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things and stuff and things and stuff!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long one!
> 
> Warning: a kinda gross substance is described in detail that isn't specifically vomit, but could possibly be partially vomit. Peter doesn't know what it is either. But it's icky. So just beware of that, if you're bothered by that kind of thing. Feel free to leave a comment asking for clarification before you read.

The next morning, Peter made his way into the kitchen to find Clint flipping pancakes, wearing purple boxers and a shirt with ‘Peter thinks I’m the coolest’ written hastily on it with sharpie. 

“Morning!” Clint said cheerfully. “I like your hair! JARVIS said that the whole purple thing was a coincidence, but I’m choosing not to believe that.”

Peter grinned, taking a seat at the table. Clint slid a plate of syrup-drenched blueberry pancakes in front of him, then returned to his place by the stove.

“Thanks!” said Peter, carving himself a bite and digging in.

“I chose blueberries ‘cause they go with the purple mood,” Clint informed him. “It’s too bad they don’t make purple syrup.”

Peter swallowed his mouthful of pancake, then said, “It would just take food coloring, right? You could probably make the pancakes purple, too.”

Clint flailed a little and nearly burned himself on the pan. “Holy shit, you’re a genius! JARVIS, do we have food coloring?”

“I believe the food coloring is at the back of the spice cabinet,” JARVIS replied. “Although I caution you against attempting the experiment now. You need to leave in ten minutes to bring Mr. Parker to school.”

Clint waved his spatula in dismissal. “It’s fine. Worst happens, I can call him in late, right? I’ll say we got stuck in traffic.”

“Seeing as Mr. Parker walks to school every day, I don’t believe that’s a viable excuse,” JARVIS said dryly.

“Challenge accepted,” Clint replied with a grin. “I’m the master of thinking of viable excuses. Let’s see… He has a dentist’s appointment.”

“Mr. Parker’s dentist’s office doesn’t open until 8:30 AM,” JARVIS informed him.

“Doctor’s appointment?” he tried.

“Mr. Parker has already had his annual physical,” said JARVIS.

Clint frowned. “Therapy?”

“Mr. Parker’s counseling appointments are scheduled regularly after school hours,” JARVIS replied promptly.

Clint made a faint sound of frustration before his eyes brightened. “Oh, oh, what’s it called… Cairo-practicer!”

“Mr. Parker has no present need to see a chiropractor,” JARVIS said.

“Yeah, but the school doesn’t know that!” said Clint gleefully. “Suck it, I win!”

JARVIS didn’t disagree, but Peter was pretty sure he was just tired of arguing with an overly determined Clint.

“Alright, let’s see, what’s the phone number…” Clint scrolled through his phone, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he simultaneously kept an eye on the pancakes. “Here we go, it’s ringing! Hang on, lemme put on my grown-up voice. Ahem. I’m a responsible adult. I do adult-y things like paying taxes and shit. I’m- Oh, hello, Ma’am! This is… Clint Potts, I’m Peter Parker’s uncle. I just wanted to let you know that Peter has a… a…”

Clint gave Peter a panicked look and mouthed, “How do you say it?”

“Chiropractor,” Peter whispered.

“... A chiropractor’s appointment this morning, so he’s going to be about half an hour late.” 

Clint grinned jauntily at Peter, but the expression faded as he listened to the secretary’s response. 

“A doctor’s note as proof? Um… Yeah, I have that. Do I… email it to you? … Okay. Um. I’ll do that. … Thanks, bye.”

Peter lifted his eyebrows at Clint, who looked mildly panicked and attempted to mask it by flipping pancakes three feet in the air. It was pretty impressive, Peter had to admit, but it didn’t distract from the problem at hand.

“... So,” Clint said after a moment. “We… might need to forge a doctor’s note? It can’t be that hard, right? JARVIS, be a pal and help us out here.”

“I must admit, I’m quite tempted to leave you to flounder,” JARVIS commented acerbically. “But I wouldn’t want to make trouble for Mr. Parker by sullying his attendance record, so I _suppose_ I’ll print the appropriate letter for you, Mr. Barton.”

“Thank Jesus fuck,” Clint said in relief. “Saved by the fact that everyone loves Peter.”

Peter’s cheeks turned their customary shade of pink; Clint clapped his hands together actionably. 

“Let’s make purple pancakes!”

\----

When Peter arrived at school forty minutes later, he was satisfyingly full on brightly colored pancakes and ready to start his day. Clint seemed a little less ready, nervously clutching the letter that JARVIS had printed as he followed Peter towards the office.

“Morning, Mr. Parker. The purple hair is new,” the secretary said; she moved her assessing gaze to Clint. “And you must be his uncle Clintpot.”

Peter choked on a little bit of air and covered his laugh with his hand.

“Um. It’s Clint Potts,” said Clint, sounding strained. “Here’s the note.”

The secretary studied him for another agonizing moment before taking the paper and looking down at it through the glasses perched on her nose.

“Hm,” she said.

Clint looked like he was having a heart attack trying to figure out what ‘hm’ meant. Peter was torn between anxiety and laughter.

“Alright,” the secretary finally told them. “I’ll excuse it.”

“I knew Jesus liked me! Nat can suck it,” Clint exclaimed before clapping a hand over his mouth in horror.

The secretary took her longest pause yet, and Peter’s heart started thumping in his chest with actual fear. 

“You know,” the secretary said, giving them a significant look. “I’m a bit deaf sometimes.”

Clint looked like he might cry in relief. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it, seemingly in fear of ruining the out he’d been given. “Thank you,” he mouthed, backing through the doorway into the hall.

“Clintpot!” the secretary called warningly.

Clint darted back into the office.

“I’m a little bit forgetful, too.”

Clint didn’t even ask, just nodded, pressing his hands together in utter thanks before scrambling away. The secretary waited until the front doors opened and closed before letting out a little cackle.

“Um,” Peter said. “Am I… Am I in trouble?”

The secretary waved her hand. “No, no. Go to class.”

Peter’s brow wrinkled. “Even though…”

“That was the funniest thing that’s happened to me all year. Go to class, Peter. Here’s a late slip.”

“Um… Okay. Thank you,” Peter said, taking the slip.

The secretary waved a hand. “Yeah, whatever. Though I don’t know who that man thinks he’s fooling; I know who he his. Anyway, I hope you had a good morning. Enjoy your classes.”

Peter gaped a little, mildly mind-boggled by the fact that he and Clint were getting away with this; he nodded to the secretary and hurried out into the hall towards his history classroom. All he’d missed was the scheduled review on the Depression, which he wasn’t terribly worried about, seeing as he had two excellent, alive resources on the subject at home. 

He slipped into the room and took his seat, which was near the door, though that didn’t save him from people glancing at him and then staring at his hair. The teacher paused at the sight of him.

“Mr. Parker, do you have a pass?”

Peter handed over the pass from the secretary, which the teacher accepted without question.

“We were just discussing the causes of the Depression. Can you name one?”

“Bank failures,” Peter said tentatively. “A lot of people lost their money.”

“That’s right. Back in the ‘30s, bank accounts were not insured, so if the banks failed, people lost their savings. Now, can anyone name the New Deal program intended to help restore trust in banks?”

\----

“Dude, I love your hair!” Ned said with a grin, setting his lunch tray on the table and plopping down beside Peter. “It looks sick!”

“Thanks!” Peter ducked his head a bit before nudging Ned. “Guess why I had to cut it so short…”

“Why?” asked Ned, intrigued.

“Dum-E stole a pair of scissors and tried to cut it,” Peter answered, his eyes crinkling.

Ned laughed. “Really?”

“Yeah, Tony refused to come to dinner ‘cause he said Hair Club would try to murder him! He seemed really serious, too. I actually sort of felt bad about it.”

“ _You_ felt bad because _your dad’s_ robot took a pair of scissors to your hair? Only you, Peter,” MJ said, sliding into the seat across from him. “Nice color, though. Glad you went with the lucky purple.”

“Hill said that you told me purple was lucky because you wanted to see me with purple hair,” said Peter. “You could’ve just asked, y’know.”

“This way was more fun,” MJ replied, looking pleased with herself.

Peter couldn’t really find a winning argument there, so he took a bite of his ham sandwich. His neck prickled, and he rubbed at it absently.

“Did I tell you guys about how much Quinn likes shoes?” Ned asked. “We’ve been hiding them ‘cause she steals them and chews on them! She got a hold of Grace’s cleats and Grace was _so pissed_... My mom said Quinn’s lucky that she’s cute!”

“She’s really cute,” MJ agreed. “I hope you know that I’m gonna hang out with Peter all the time while he’s dog-sitting.”

Ned opened his mouth to reply, but MJ cut him off as her eyes snapped upwards, above Peter’s head.

“Don’t you fucking dare, _Eugene_.”

Peter twisted around in his seat so fast he nearly got whiplash, but all he saw was Flash shoving people out of his way as he darted out of the cafeteria. There were some murmurs, a snicker here and there, and Peter suddenly became aware of something warm dripping down the back of his neck. He turned slowly to face Ned and MJ, who looked furious.

“What is it?” he asked them, afraid to reach up and check.

“I don’t know,” MJ said calmly; it was the kind of calm that Natasha got when someone wronged her, or worse, her friends.

“C’mon, man, let’s go clean it up,” said Ned, getting to his feet and offering Peter a hand.

Peter took it, and the three of them abandoned their lunches in favor of heading for the bathrooms at the end of the hall. MJ leaned against the lockers as Ned went to open the door to the boys’ bathroom, but Peter grabbed his arm.

“Wait, don’t.”

Ned turned to look at him, worried. “What?”

“I dunno, I’m just getting a really bad feeling about going in there,” Peter said after a moment.

Ned and MJ looked at each other. MJ raised her eyebrows, and Ned made a weird jazz-hands motion around his head.

“Well, you probably shouldn’t go in, then.” said MJ. “Your gut feelings are usually right. Here, you can use this one.”

Peter balked as MJ tugged his arm. “I can’t!”

“Why not?”

“That’s a girls' bathroom!”

“So?” MJ said.

Peter widened his eyes and gestured to it. “It’s for girls!”

“Who cares? Gender is a social construct, anyway.”

“But…”

MJ narrowed her eyes, and Peter gave up. She turned back to face Ned. “Go find Kevin Haas and tell him to use the boys' bathroom and report back on what he sees.”

“I don’t think he’ll listen to me,” Ned replied, slightly confused.

“Say that I want him to. He owes me.”

“Ookay.” Ned headed back towards the cafeteria.

MJ grabbed Peter’s wrist and dragged him into the girls' bathroom; there were two girls by the sinks who looked mildly scandalized when they saw him.

“This is the girls' room,” one said.

“I know,” MJ replied.

“So… why is _he_ in here? And what’s on his head?”

“For reasons. And we don’t know.” MJ smiled a wolfish grin at the girls before tugging Peter to the nearest sink. “You should take off your shirt, Peter.”

“No I shouldn’t!” Peter squeaked, alarmed.

“It’s all over your back,” MJ pointed out.

Peter gripped the hem of his shirt firmly. “I’m good!”

“It looks really gross,” the other girl remarked. “It’ll probably stain.”

MJ started to pull off her shirt, and Peter quickly averted his eyes.

“What are you doing?!” he asked, disconcerted. 

“If you’re so worried about being shirtless, you can wear mine after your hair is clean. C’mon, off with it.”

Peter made a little sound of distress, but peeled his shirt off and balled it up before setting it on the counter. The two girls tittered and he crossed his arms, trying to cover as much of his naked top half as he could. 

“Lean forward and put your head in the sink. I’ll wash your hair,” MJ said, leaving no room for argument. 

Peter obeyed; he was glad MJ was so decisive, otherwise he was pretty sure the situation would be unimaginably awkward. He felt cold water on his head and shivered as MJ began to scrub the… whatever it was out of his hair. It was pinkish-orange in color and about the consistency of yogurt; it smelled sour and had little chunks and flecks in it. He felt sick watching it ooze down the drain. He hoped it wasn’t vomit.

He heard MJ give the soap dispenser a few pumps and suds began to stream into the basin. He watched as the water eventually started to run clear aside from a slight purple tint from his new dye. MJ gave his head a final scour and rinse, then squeezed out as much water as she could before stepping back to let him straighten up. He leaned into the counter as his head spun a little; he’d spent a solid five minutes doubled over the sink.

“Aww, he’s blushing!” one of the girls exclaimed.

“He’s kind of got abs,” the other whispered quietly enough that Peter wouldn’t’ve heard if he had normal ears. 

The first girl brazenly regarded him in consideration, then asked, “Are you two together?”

“No,” MJ said, her voice even. “He’s not interested in a relationship, and neither am I.”

“Is he gay, then?” she asked, tilting her head.

“You’d have to ask him. But I wouldn’t, seeing as it’s none of your goddamn business.” MJ glared at them with finality and handed Peter her shirt, a gray v-neck that hugged his shoulders and chest tightly once he put it on.

“Thanks,” he murmured, his gaze still cast away from her torso.

“You can look at me, Peter. I know you won’t ogle me.”

Peter turned to face her, cheeks bright pink, keeping his eyes firmly above her neck. She studied him, then nodded in satisfaction.

“Much better. Let’s go find Ned.”

“Wait,” Peter said as she started for the door. “But you’re not wearing a shirt.”

MJ made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “Peter, I’m wearing a tank top.”

Peter chanced a look below MJ’s shoulders and sure enough, found a thin tank top covering her midriff. “Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘Oh’. C’mon, Mr. Gentleman.”

Peter ducked his head and let MJ lead him out of the bathroom, where Ned was waiting. He looked relieved to see Peter goop-free.

“I got Kevin Haas to go into the boys' bathroom like you said and when he came out, he told me that a bunch of Flash’s friends and some other jerks were waiting in there with cartons of eggs! I’m really glad you didn’t go in, Peter. Wait, is that MJ’s shirt?”

Peter nodded. “Mine got ruined.”

“Oh man, that sucks.” Ned patted his shoulder. “Do you guys want to come over after school to hang out with Quinn? We can study for finals, too.”

Peter nodded. “That sounds good.”

“Okay,” MJ said in agreement.

“And dude, I have to ask - what’s it like in the girls' bathroom? I’m sorry, I’ve just been wondering since I was, like, nine.”

“It’s a lot cleaner,” said Peter immediately. “Um… It smells a lot better. There’s no trash on the floor. Oh, and no urinals.”

“God, I’m glad I’m a girl,” MJ sighed.

\----

After school, the three of them took the bus to Ned’s place. The first thing they did when they arrived was leash up Quinn and take her for a walk to the park down the block; she loved to start running and then stop dead to sniff something that fascinated her. It was hilarious, but also easy to trip over her.

When they got back to Ned’s, they took up residence on the couch in the living room while Quinn, exhausted, napped on her little bed by the coffee table. They decided to study chemistry first (Gas Laws), then history (the Civil War and Reconstruction), and finally language (reflexive verbs in Spanish for Ned and Peter, Latin grammar for MJ). They were just finishing their review on the presidential election of 1876 when Ned’s sister waltzed in and tossed her backpack down; she was followed by his dad, who smiled at them.

“How was school?” he asked. “Are you studying for finals?”

“It was good! I mean, other than Peter getting gross goop dumped on his head. That really sucked. But the rest of it was fine! And yeah, we’re studying history right now.”

“Good for you,” Ned’s dad said; he looked to Peter. “I’m sorry about the ‘gross goop’. Is the purple new? I hope it’s not a result of the goop…”

“It’s new, but it’s not from the goop,” Peter assured him. “I dyed it last night.”

“Well, it looks very nice. Good choice of color.”

“Thanks,” Peter said, ducking his head.

Mr. Leeds smiled again and headed into the kitchen. Grace poked her head around the corner to the hall.

“Ned, have you seen my cleats? If Quinn got them again, you’re dead.”

“They’re in your room,” Ned replied. “Mom put them there, remember?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Grace grabbed her backpack and disappeared down the hall towards her room.

MJ checked the time and frowned. “Did she just get out of school? It’s past five.”

“Nah, she had therapy after school,” Ned said, rooting through his bag for his Spanish folder.

MJ nodded unconcernedly and picked up her pencil, but Peter’s forehead wrinkled and he stared at Ned for a few moments.

“Your sister goes to therapy?”

Ned looked back up. “Yeah, why? There’s nothing wrong with it.”

Peter widened his eyes. “Oh, no, I know! There’s nothing… I just… I though people only went to therapy if… like… y’know. Something like… _really_...”

Ned just seemed confused.

“You know that a lot of people go to therapy, right?” MJ said to Peter. “I went to therapy during freshman year. It’s not just for people with severe trauma.”

There was a very long pause in which Peter’s world turned over in his head, and he finally said, in a faint voice, “ _Really?_ ”

“Yeah,” MJ said. “And I’m guessing nobody told you that, because you have your ‘holy shit my brain is imploding face on.”

“You know, that’s a really good description for that face,” Ned remarked. “I used to call it the ‘mind kaboomboom’ face in my head, but yours is better.”

“Thanks,” MJ said, sounding pleased. “C’mon, Peter. Time to study your Spanish.”

\----

When Peter got home, Bucky and Steve were waiting for him in the shared kitchen; there was a plate of cookies on the table, Steve was eating one and reading a newspaper, and Bucky was knitting something with pink yarn while wearing an equally pink cardigan. He noticed Peter looking and smiled a little bit. 

“I borrowed it from Hill. Until I finish my own. Do you like it.” 

Peter’s face lifted into a grin. “Yeah, it’s great!”

Bucky’s eyes crinkled. “Do you want one, too.”

Peter looked surprised for a beat, but then said, “Sure!”

Bucky nodded. “It’ll take a few weeks to finish mine. Then I’ll start yours.”

“Thanks!” Peter said happily. 

He set down his backpack and slid into the chair beside Bucky, taking a cookie from the plate. He bit into it and was met with melting chocolate and peanut chunks.

“Mmm. These are really good.”

“Take ‘em fast, or Stevie ‘ll get all of ‘em.”

“I wouldn’t eat all of them,” Steve protested, his eyes still glued to the paper.

“How many have you had,” asked Bucky, challenging him.

“Hm. Four?”

“Ten.” Bucky’s lips twitched as Steve’s head shot up.

“What? No way!”

“I made forty. There are ten left. Peter has one. I ate three. Barton had six. Romanova had three. Stark stole two. Hill had two. Pepper had two. Banner had one. Do the math, punk.”

Steve opened his mouth to reply, but Bucky cut him off.

“Doesn’t matter. Now that I have your attention, we gotta talk to Peter.”

Peter’s heart skipped a beat, and his eyes widened. “About what?”

“Right,” Steve said, sitting up in his seat. “Now, Natasha came in earlier and told us that there was an incident during lunch today.”

Peter shoved the rest of his cookie in his mouth and covered his face. “How did she find out? Oh, MJ probably told her. Bleurgh.”

Bucky’s lips twitched. “Bleurgh.”

Steve poked him. “Don’t reenforce bad behavior. Remember what the book said?”

Peter peeked out from behind his hands. “Book?”

“Steve went to the library and-” Bucky was cut off by Steve covering his mouth; he looked unimpressed and used his handy-dandy metal arm to pry Steve’s hand away. “Steve went to the library and got a book on parenting. And made me read it with him.”

Peter looked bemused. “Why? Oh, do you want children?”

Bucky looked mildly alarmed. “God, no. Steve said. We should read it so we can be good influences on you. I think we’re lost causes. But Steve has that goddamn optimism.”

“Buck! Don’t swear!”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Stark. Adopted him. I think he’s heard the word goddamn.”

“Yes, but just because-”

“Give it up, Stevie. Get back on subject.”

Steve looked mildly flustered. “Right. Well, we just wanted to… check in, and make sure everything’s alright…”

“I’m okay,” Peter said with a shrug. “It was gross and stuff, but worse things have happened. Ned and MJ helped.”

“Good. Plan of action still being determined. How was the rest of the day,” asked Bucky.

“After school, MJ and I went over to Ned’s and we took Quinn for a walk and studied, that was really fun,” Peter answered.

“What did you study. And how is Quinn.”

“We studied chem, history, and Spanish, and Quinn is good,” Peter said, smiling. “She’s so cute! I’m really excited to puppy-sit.”

Bucky inclined his head. “Very good. Anything else interesting.”

Peter started to say no, but changed his mind. “Um, yeah, actually. I guess Ned’s sister goes to therapy, and MJ went to therapy. I just… I didn’t know that so many people went to therapy? I thought it was… more for… I dunno. _Really_ bad things. I didn’t think it was common.”

“I think. It’s fairly common, now,” said Bucky. “There is a higher demand. So there’s a higher supply. You don’t have to worry about taking the time away from other people. There are plenty of therapists.”

Peter nodded slowly. “Yeah. I guess… That was good for me to realize.”

Bucky looked satisfied and offered him another cookie, which he accepted gratefully. 

“Did you practice with the braces today?” he asked Bucky.

“Yes. I balanced well. For more than a minute. And.” Bucky smiled a rare, wide smile. “I took a step.”

Peter’s face lit up. “Really? That’s great! I wish I was there to see it!”

“Building JARVIS recorded it. He can play it for you.”

“JARVIS, can I see the video, please?” Peter asked.

“Of course, Mr. Parker. It’s ready to watch on the television in the living room.”

“Thanks!” Peter chirped, darting into the living room and sailing onto the couch. 

Bucky wheeled his way over; Steve sat down beside Peter, holding the cookies. Peter took another one, biting into it with satisfaction as the video began to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, pally-o's! Can you tell I'm sleep-deprived? If the answer was yes before you read this note, I apologize. I probably misspelled things or something. I don't have my work beta-read, so all mistakes are my own. If this chapter is super messy, let me know in the comments and I'll go back and edit it when my brain is more functional. I just wanted to stick to the deadline! Which, I'm proud to say, I made it by half an hour.
> 
> I'd also like to apologize for not having illustrations for a pink-clad Bucky and purple-haired Peter. It has been _a week_ (very busy) and I just haven't had the time (or the resources to draw them digitally at the moment, which I like to do). Hopefully I'll have them done by next Sunday!
> 
> Also, as a guy who had to use girls' bathrooms for many years of my life, I strongly attest to the fact that girls' bathrooms are considerably cleaner and better-smelling than boys' bathrooms. It's the one thing I miss. Like... Why is there pee on the floor?? If you can't aim, sit your ass down on the toilet until you figure it out. If a penis-wielding person has time to explain why some of your fellow penis-wielders end up peeing on the floor, I, a non-penis-wielding man, would like to listen.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finals. Cookies, ice cream, and misery?

On Monday, finals began. Peter wasn’t unprepared, but he was still alarmed by the speed with which they’d born down upon him. By 8:00 AM he was sitting in his history classroom, worrying a pencil between his teeth as scantrons were passed out down the aisles. He closed his eyes for a moment and thought of the reassuring expression Bucky had given him in the kitchen earlier, the hug from Pepper, the pat on the back from Tony, the squeeze of his shoulder from Steve, and the ferocious rumpling of his purple hair from Clint. A thick exam packet fell onto his desk with a thump, and his eyes shot open. He could do this. He’d be fine. Hill and Natasha had refused to wish him luck because they insisted he wouldn’t need any; his lips twitched at the memory, and he flipped the packet open to begin.

 

\----

 

With their first final complete, Peter found MJ and Ned lingering outside the gym; Ned looked woebegone and MJ was patting his arm kindly.

“He forgot to study on The Spanish-American War,” MJ informed Peter. “He thinks that he failed.”

“I’m sure you didn’t fail,” Peter said to Ned. “It can’t be that bad. There were only a few questions about it.”

“A few questions can mean life or death!” Ned despaired. “And I’m sure I got the one on the Tonkin Resolution wrong, and the one about the Reagan administration… I always mix him up with Nixon!”

“Nixon did Watergate,” said MJ. “Reagan was just… conservative.”

Ned groaned, rubbing at his face. “I want to go home.”

“One more final to go, sorry,” MJ told him. “At least it’s just Spanish.”

“Just Spanish! I’ll never remember all the conjugations… especially the irregular ones! And… and… oh my god, I’m gonna die.”

“You won’t,” Peter said comfortingly. “I’ll be there with you.”

“Yeah, but… You have your… your Spider-brain!”

Peter flailed his arms to shush Ned; MJ snorted loudly, and Ned pouted at her.

“Let’s go get lunch,” she said, somewhat pityingly. “Food makes everything better.”

 

\----

 

“How were your finals today,” Bucky asked, presenting Peter, MJ, and Ned with a plate of sugar cookies as they slid into chairs at the kitchen table.

“Not bad,” MJ said, taking a cookie and nodding in thanks.

“Speak for yourself,” Ned sighed; he dropped his forehead onto the table and groaned.

Bucky, worried, wheeled himself forward, laying a tentative hand on Ned’s shoulder in comfort. “Would you like a cookie.”

Ned nodded, bumping his head on the table. Bucky handed him a cookie, which he shoved into his mouth morosely.

“How about you,” Bucky asked, looking to Peter. “How did they go.”

“Okay, I think,” Peter replied. “I don’t _think_ I failed either of them, but you never really know…”

“I’m sure you didn’t fail,” MJ said briskly. “You probably got a B at worst.”

“If you failed, then I’m doomed,” Ned added, still somewhat miserable. “So let’s say you didn’t, for my sake.”

“I think. I know what might cheer you up,” said Bucky.

Ned made a faintly inquisitive sound and bit into another cookie; he was still slumped forward on the table.

“You have to look,” Bucky prompted.

Ned lifted his head to gaze at Bucky, who pulled the brake locks on his wheelchair and stood up. It seemed to take Ned a moment to process that Bucky was _standing_ , and then his face lit up like the sun.

“DUDE!!! That’s awesome!!”

“Thanks.” Bucky looked down at the braces on his legs, satisfied with himself.

“Congratulations,” MJ said to him, offering a grin. “Did Peter make those?”

“He did,” Bucky confirmed. “Aren’t they cool.”

“They’re _so cool_!!!!!” Ned exclaimed, flailing a bit and nearly dropping his cookie.

Bucky’s lips twitched happily at the reaction. “I can balance pretty well. And I can walk a bit.”

To demonstrate, he moved forward, wobbling a bit as he reached the kitchen counter but catching himself without grabbing on. Ned clapped, and Peter and MJ joined in as Bucky turned and walked back to him.

“Good job!” said a voice from the ceiling that definitely _wasn’t_ JARVIS; Bucky snatched up the butter knife that was covered in cookie icing and pointed it warily at the source of the sound.

“Who the fuck was that.”

“Oh, sorry, man! It’s Clint, I didn’t mean to scare you!”

“What. Are you doing. In the ceiling.”

There was a long pause. “Um… don’t worry about it. And could you maybe not tell Nat? Please?”

“Why,” Bucky asked, squinting at the ceiling.

“Because… I said so?”

Bucky made a grumpy ‘humph’ and muttered, “We’ll see.”

“Thanks, buddy-ol’-pal! Amigo! Comrade! Homeboy! Sista! Chum! Mate!” Clint’s voice grew quieter and quieter as he scurried away until it was completely inaudible.

Peter had to admit to himself that he was impressed by the number of synonyms for ‘friend’ that Clint could think of on the fly. Bucky, still suspicious, slowly set the knife down. Then he looked at it, picked it up again to lick off the icing, and put it back on the table. 

“Good choice,” Ned told him, and he nodded.

“Mr. JARVIS?” MJ said. 

“How can I help you, Miss Jones?” JARVIS replied.

“Why was Hawk-weirdo in the ceiling?”

“I’ve been asked not to disclose that information,” said JARVIS remorsefully. “No protocols are technically being violated, so I’m obliged to respect his request. My apologies.”

“It’s alright,” MJ told him, shrugging. “I just thought it was worth a shot.”

“It was a valiant effort,” JARVIS agreed. “There is, however, another way to obtain the information. I’m not quite allowed to suggest it, though perhaps that can be your hint.”

“There’s probably not a lot of things that you’re not allowed to suggest,” Ned said. “Is it something, like… really bad?”

“It can be,” JARVIS replied. “Though in this situation, it’s not terribly harmful.”

“What is is?” asked Ned, exchanging a curious look with Peter.

“I can’t say,” said JARVIS, a mix of amused and apologetic. “You’ll have to figure-”

“Blackmail,” Bucky interrupted. “Good idea. Thanks, building.”

MJ’s face brightened. “Ooh, blackmail.”

“Building JARVIS. Please tell Barton that if he doesn’t tell us what he’s doing in the ceiling. Romanova will know that he’s up there.” Bucky tilted his head. “And Stark, too.”

There was a pause, then a faint, “Motherfucker!” and the sound of Clint scuttling along drew closer until it stopped above their heads. “I’m up here because I left the balcony door open and it rained and a lot of stuff got wet, including this pretty dress Nat had out and a pair of nice shoes and she’s really mad, so… I’m kinda hiding? Please don’t tell her I’m here. _Please_.”

For a moment, no one spoke, seemingly feeling a mutual sense of regret for Clint.

“Okay,” Bucky said. “I won’t.”

“Thank fuck,” Clint sighed. “Whew.”

Bucky smirked a little. “But. One condition.”

“What is it?” asked Clint immediately.

“Go scare Steve.”

Clint’s laugh was a mixture of delight and relief. “Sure, gotcha. I’ll see you guys tomorrow… If I’m still alive, I guess.”

MJ snorted. “Good luck.”

“I’ll need it,” Clint replied, his voice becoming fainter as he receded into the depths of the ceiling again.

\----

The second (and last) day of finals had consisted of math and chemistry, which Peter actually thought had went well for him, to his surprise. MJ and Ned seemed a little less surprised, though Peter was pretty sure that all their confidence in him was unjustified. He was okay at math and stuff, but he wasn’t a genius or anything. He definitely wasn’t as smart as Tony, he told himself. He made too many stupid mistakes.

“Peter?” Ned said, poking him, and he startled to attention as they headed down the hall towards the front of the school.

“Sorry, yeah?”

“You have that look on your face again,” said MJ.

Peter’s eyebrows scrunched in confusion. “What look?”

“The one that looks like you’re trying to will yourself to implode in a ball of self-hatred,” MJ informed him.

“Um,” Peter said, slightly taken aback. “I’m… sorry? I didn’t mean to… Is it making you guys-”

“We’re fine,” Ned said assuringly. “We’re just worried about you, man.”

“I’m fine, really. I’m sorry to be a bother,” Peter replied in earnest.

“You’re not a bother. It’s not your fault that we’re worried,” MJ asserted, then studied his face and sighed. “You don’t believe me, do you.”

“I…” Peter’s heart jumped nervously as he tried to find the right response. “Yes?”

MJ arched and eyebrow. “Yes you believe me, or yes you don’t believe me?”

“Yes!” Peter replied without thinking about the question.

MJ gave Ned a _look_ , and Ned shrugged.

“Don’t worry about it, man,” he told Peter. “As long as you’re okay.”

That, Peter knew the answer to. “I’m fine, I promise.”

“Alright,” MJ said, but she looked a little too dubious for comfort. 

The three of them burst out the doors into the pleasant warmth of mid-June; they shuffled through the crowd down to the sidewalk, where Pepper was waiting for Peter with a bright smile on her face. She greeted him with a kiss to the temple, and then pulled Ned and MJ in each for their respective hugs.

“How were they?” she asked, stepping back.

“I… I think good,” Peter replied, and she beamed at him.

“That’s wonderful! Would you like to get ice cream to celebrate?”

His response was delayed by surprise, but he nodded vigorously and turned to Ned and MJ. “Do you guys want to come?” 

“I wish!” said Ned. “I have to go home and pack since we’re leaving tomorrow.”

“That’s right! What time will you be bringing Quinn by?” Pepper asked him.

“Is noon okay?”

“Noon sounds excellent.” Pepper smiled and looked over to MJ. “Ice cream?”

“Thanks, but I have to take my grandma grocery shopping in half an hour,” MJ replied. “My cousins and I take turns helping her with stuff.”

“That’s very good of you. I’m sure she likes spending time with you.”

MJ’s eyes crinkled. “She’s pretty badass. It’s a fun time.”

Pepper laughed. “Well, I hope you enjoy yourselves. You too, Ned.”

“Thanks, Ms. Pepper! See you tomorrow, Peter!” replied Ned, waving at them before hurrying over to meet his mom at the curb.

“I’ve got a bus to catch,” MJ said. “Bye, Pepper. Seeya, Peter.”

“Bye,” said Peter. “Have fun with your grandma!”

He and Pepper watched MJ stride off down the sidewalk, then they turned to head in the other direction towards the Tower.

“Would you rather stop to get ice cream for the walk, or have some at home?” Pepper asked him.

“I… I don’t mind either way,” he replied. 

“I’m fine with either as well. Why don’t you choose? You’re the one we’re celebrating, after all.”

“Um… I…” Peter’s heart started to thump with anxiety as he weighed the choices, trying frantically to come up with an answer.

Pepper put a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to think too much about it. This is the kind of decision you make knowing that either option is perfectly acceptable.”

Peter gave her a slightly agonized look. “But which one is _better_? What if I choose the wrong one?”

“Well,” said Pepper. “I think it’s important to remember that in this situation, there is no wrong decision. We know that we’ll enjoy both. With that in mind, maybe one option _will_ be a tiny bit better, but maybe it won’t. There’s no way of knowing; you can’t expect yourself to predict the future, so you just pick one at random and go with it. Usually, it ends up being just fine.”

Peter considered it, worrying his lip, then said, “But how do you pick a random one? Don’t all decisions I make have an underlying bias?”

Pepper smiled. “Good point. Sometimes, underlying bias can be a good thing. In cases like this one, it can mean that you subconsciously _do_ have a preference. In decisions with higher stakes, you might be biased from your gut feeling, which can be right and can be wrong. But when you want a decision to be completely random, you can do something like flipping a coin.”

“...Oh.” Peter felt a little blown away. “Okay.”

He watched as Pepper checked her pockets, her wallet, then said, “I don’t have a coin on me, but we can do it another way. I’ll assign odd numbers to one choice and evens to another, and then you pick a number. Sound good?”

He nodded.

“Okay, pick a number from one to ten.”

“Six,” he said tentatively.

“We’ll stop to get ice cream, then,” Pepper replied. “Evens were buying ice cream, odds were eating at home.”

Peter didn’t speak for nearly a minute. “That was… easier than I thought,” he finally admitted.

“Good,” said Pepper, looking pleased. “How about we stop over there? It doesn’t look too busy.”

They crossed the street and stepped into a small ice cream shop that had just three tables; only one was occupied. The young man behind the counter nodded at them.

“What can I get you today?”

Pepper made a light sound of contemplation. “Are you getting chocolate, Peter?”

“I think so,” Peter replied quietly.

Pepper looked over the flavors one more time before inclining her head decisively. “I will too, then. Two small chocolates in cups with cones on top, please.”

The man got to work scooping their ice cream and Pepper pulled out her wallet; the man set their ice creams on the ledge above the freezers and took the twenty Pepper handed him. Peter grabbed two spoons and picked up the ice creams as Pepper dropped the coins from her change into the tip jar.

“Thank you,” they both said before heading for the door.

Pepper tucked away her wallet and took her ice cream gratefully from Peter, who began to eat as they stepped out onto the sidewalk.

“It’s good,” he said, and she nodded in agreement.

“A solid chocolate. We’ll have to come back soon.”

Peter smiled a bit and took another bite. They ate in a peaceful silence; it took them the rest of the walk home to finish devouring the slowly-melting treat. They threw their cups out in the lobby and took the rightmost elevator up to the common floor, which was empty. Peter set down his backpack and took off his shoes.

“I should probably get back to work,” Pepper said regretfully, looking towards Peter.

He ducked his head at the adoration in her eyes; it reminded him of how Aunt May used to look at him. When Pepper didn’t shift her gaze, he glanced up and found her face awash with emotion.

“Peter,” she said, and something in her tone made every muscle in his body contract. He didn’t know why his brain was screaming flight, but it took physical effort to remain still.

“I just want you to know how proud of you I am,” she continued. “You’ve faced more than you ever should’ve had to, and you’ve kept fighting through all of it. You’re one of the most resilient people I know, and you mean the world to me. I know I can’t replace the mother figures you’ve lost, and I won’t try to. But I’m beyond proud to call you my son. I love you so much, _so much_ , Peter, and nothing will ever change that, okay? You’ve had a hard few months, and I just wanted to remind you how loved you are. By me, and by everyone else in our funny little family.”

Peter felt utterly overwhelmed; he tried not to breathe or speak because he was pretty sure if he did either, he would burst into tears. After a pause, Pepper took his hand, brushing her fingers over his cheek.

“What are you thinking about, sweetie?” she asked gently.

Peter covered his face with his free hand. When his voice came out, it was muffled and hoarse. “I don’t… I don’t deserve all that.”

“Of _course_ you do, Peter,” Pepper said, heartfelt. “But guess what?”

She waited until he looked at her, his eyes full of tears, to continue.

“If you don’t believe me, _that’s too bad_ ,” she said, her voice firmer than he’d ever heard it directed towards him. “No matter what you think, I’ll keep loving you and supporting you with everything I have. Because I _know_ that you deserve it, and there’s nothing you can do or say to change my mind. You’re stuck with me being proud of you forever, okay? You’ll just have to learn to accept that I think you’re more than worthy of it.”

Peter buried his face in his hands, and Pepper wrapped her arms around him in one of the tightest hugs he could remember. He dissolved into sobs on her shoulder, unable to stop even when he tried. She stepped over to the couch, and he went with her as she sat down and pulled a blanket over the two of them. 

She murmured comforts in his ear and pressed kisses to the top of his head as he shook and trembled with deep, wretched gasps. Whenever he could get enough air, he apologized, but she shushed him and rocked him with a tenderness that ripped him apart. After what felt like eons, he quieted, just letting out a sniffle here and there as Pepper held him like a child.

“I love you,” she murmured, and he buried his head in his mom’s soft, warm sweater again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments are appreciated.
> 
> I figured it was about time to serve a platter of angst after all of the nice fluff... I'm sorry!
> 
> My apologies a second chapter in a row for not including any illustrations! I'm afraid I won't have time to do them for a while; this fall is shaping up to be hecking busy and I start a new job tomorrow, as well. It's mostly volunteer work; it'll be stuff that I really enjoy, which is good, but it'll be time-consuming nonetheless!
> 
> Continuing on that note, I don't foresee myself having much time to write this week, so whether I'll be able to update on time by Sunday is questionable. I'll do my best, but please don't be terribly disappointed if I miss the deadline! Thanks for bearing with me :)


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Puppy-sitting!!

The next morning, Peter was woken unceremoniously by someone leaping onto the end of his bed and bouncing up and down while singing his name in a surprisingly adept baritone. He flailed his way into sitting position, rubbing at his eyes and squinting at Clint in confusion.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in the ceiling?”

“Nat’s not mad at me anymore!” Clint replied cheerfully. “Well, relatively, I guess. Tony took the shoes that got ruined and tried to put repulsors in them for fun, and now she’s _super_ pissed at him, so she’s pretty much forgotten that I was the one who got them ruined in the first place!”

Peter stretched his arms over his head and yawned, mumbling, “Good for you, I guess?”

“Thanks, buddy! Just don’t tell her I was in the ceiling, alright? I know she’ll find out about it at some point, but I’m trying to delay that as much as I can.”

“Doesn’t she already know about the air vents?” Peter asked, confused.

“Yeah, but she doesn’t know about the crawl space in the ceiling! I mean, I’m sure she does, but I’m banking on the hope that she thinks I’m not smart enough to have found it yet.”

“You should give yourself more credit,” said Peter. “I’m sure she thinks better of you than that.”

Clint deflated slightly. “Yeah, it’s probably wishful thinking. I bet that she knew I was in there all along and she was just humoring me or some shit.”

“Probably,” Peter agreed absentmindedly, leaning down to grab two unmatched socks from the floor and pulling them onto his feet without much consideration.

“You’re pretty blunt when you’re tired,” Clint remarked, sounding oddly proud. “It’s refreshing.”

Peter shook himself to attention. “What?”

“Never mind,” Clint said, grinning. “C’mon, let’s clean your room! The puppy is coming today and you don’t want her to swallow your socks!”

Peter laughed a little, then fell silent for a beat. “You were kidding, right? They don’t actually eat socks.”

“You’d be surprised,” said Clint sagely. “They pull all sorts of things out of dogs’ stomachs.”

Peter wrinkled his nose, looking slightly nauseated at the idea. “We should get started, then.”

“Yep!” Clint studied the messy floor, then flopped back onto Peter’s bed with a sigh. “... Yep.”

“Are you going to help?” Peter asked, picking up a pair of jeans from beside his bed.

Clint looked mildly alarmed. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

Peter pouted and blinked at him. “Please?”

“You’re too fucking precious for your own good. Dammit! Fine.” Clint clambered to his feet and started chucking socks at the laundry basket in the corner of the room.

Peter pulled on an oversized shirt, probably one that Bucky or Steve had leant him, and scooped a couple notebooks off the floor. “JARVIS, can you play some Alt-J?”

“Certainly, Mr. Parker,” JARVIS replied cordially, and music spouted gently from the in-wall speakers.

Clint ceased his sock-throwing, tilting his head to listen. “This is Alt-J?”

“From their second album,” Peter confirmed, wiggling his knee to the beat as he stacked his old schoolwork.

“Huh,” Clint said thoughtfully. “I’ve never heard it.”

“Do you like it?”

“It’s great,” Clint declared, then resumed his pitching of socks. He never missed the basket.

“Would you like me to add it to your playlist?” JARVIS asked him.

“Yeah, sure!” Clint grinned. “Thanks, bro!”

“Of course,” said JARVIS, sounding fondly amused. “I took the liberty of adding a few additional tracks from the same album.”

“Just for me? Aw, man, you shouldn’t’ve.” Clint pressed a dramatic hand to his chest. “I feel so spoiled.”

Peter laughed a little and plopped his stack of papers into a half-empty desk drawer. “JARVIS is everybody’s _real_ best friend.”

“A-fuckin’-men,” Clint sighed, and moved on from throwing socks to balled-up t-shirts.

\----

Ned arrived with Quinn and his father in tow just after noon; his father was carrying a large crate in one hand and a bag of dog food in the other. Pepper greeted Mr. Leeds warmly, ushering him away from the elevator. Quinn was straining on her leash, so excited that she was vibrating, and honestly, Peter could relate. He squatted down and received a wriggling armful of wild puppy; he grinned up at Ned, who beamed back at him.

“She looks bigger!” said Peter, stretching away from the barrage of kisses that Quinn was attempting to bestow upon his mouth. “Did she grow?”

“Probably!” Ned replied. “I don’t really notice since I see her every day, but Grace’s friends say that too!”

“Awesome,” Peter declared, avoiding Quinn’s nippy teeth in favor of pressing a kiss to her head.

Quinn snorted and flopped onto her back, flailing around in Peter’s lap joyfully. Ned sat down on the floor beside them, tickling Quinn’s stomach and laughing as she whipped her tail around. 

“She’s so _precious_ ,” said Peter.

“I’m gonna miss her, man,” Ned remarked a little mournfully.

“I’ll text you updates at least twice a day,” Peter assured him. “And we can facetime, too.”

Ned nodded. “I just don’t want her to think I’m abandoning her, y’know?”

“I’m sure she won’t think that,” Peter said earnestly. “You’ll be back before she knows it. It’s only five days, right?”

“Right,” said Ned. “Aw, man, I think I might cry. Don’t tell MJ, okay?”

“I won’t,” Peter replied seriously. “Do you want a hug?”

“Yeah.” Ned looked morose as Peter leaned over and gave him a hug. “Thanks, dude.”

“Everyone needs a hug sometimes,” said Peter. “Here, hug Quinn.”

Ned sniffled a little as Quinn leapt onto his thighs, her tongue lolling out joyfully. “I miss you already, squishy muffin.”

“Time to go, Ned. We’re short on time,” said Mr. Leeds, sounding apologetic.

“Alright. Just… One sec.” Ned folded Quinn into a hug; she nuzzled his cheek and nibbled his nose with her needle-sharp teeth. “I love you, beanie bean.”

After a long moment, he stood up and handed Quinn’s leash to Peter, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

“I’ll text you,” Peter told him. “I hope you have fun in Rhode Island.”

Ned made a face before his father put and hand on his shoulder and led him into the waiting elevator. Quinn tried to follow him, and when unsuccessful, began to chew on her leash.

“Take good care of her!” he called to Peter.

“I will!” Peter promised, waving with his free hand.

The elevator closed, and Quinn let out a little yip.

“I’m sorry,” Peter told her, crouching down and letting her pounce on him. “They’ll be back in just a few days, I swear.”

“It’ll just take a little while for her to adjust,” Pepper told him. “I’ll set up her food and water bowls, and I’ll see if Nat can drop the crate off in your room on her way down to the gym. Does that sound good?”

“Yeah! Thanks, Mom,” Peter said. “I think I’m gonna take her down to see Bucky. He really seems to like her.”

“He does,” Pepper agreed with a smile. “I was about to check that you didn’t have homework, and then I realized-”

“School is over,” Peter finished happily.

Pepper gave him a fond look and tousled his hair; she started to head to the kitchen, but paused. “Just a reminder, you have therapy today at 4:00. Nadia, your previous therapist, had a baby just a couple weeks ago, so you’ll be seeing a woman called Faye Sonnenschein. I spoke to her over the phone, and she seems really lovely. I think you’ll like her.”

Peter’s brain did a flail of panic; he made a noise that sounded like a balloon deflating before forcing himself to take a deep breath. He trusted Pepper. It would be fine. He inclined his head and mumbled, “Okay.”

“She has a very high clearance; it’s up to you whether you tell her about certain spider-related activities, but you’re certainly allowed to if you’d like, alright, dear?”

“Okay,” Peter said again, stroking Quinn’s back. “Thanks for reminding me.”

“No problem, sweetheart. Have fun with Quinn and Barnes!”

“I will,” Peter replied, more genuine now.

Pepper curled her lips into a soft smile and made her way into the kitchen, the bag of dog food in her arms. Peter gave Quinn one last pat before leading her to the elevator, which took them down to Bucky and Steve’s floor. Peter knocked on the door; it was opened a few moments later by Bucky, who was wearing his braces. Peter let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, his inner turmoil dissolving as he stepped inside.

Quinn looked just as happy to see Bucky as he looked to see her; she wiggled up to him, her tongue lolling. He pushed the door shut and beckoned Peter and Quinn to the couch where a pile of notebooks were shoved to the side; Peter made sure not to look at the one that lay open on top. Bucky snapped it shut with a grateful expression before scooping Quinn up and letting her flop across his chest as he reclined into the cushions. She licked his neck and wagged her tail, looking pleased; Bucky offered her a rare, bright smile.

“Where’s Steve?” Peter asked, tucking his legs beneath him and getting comfortable.

“He went to the gym,” Bucky replied. “It’s sort of like therapy for him. He prefers to run outside, but. He tends to get swarmed.”

Peter made a face.

“Exactly.” Bucky paused to gaze at Quinn adoringly before looking back to Peter. “What’s on your mind.”

“What? I don’t… There’s nothing on my mind. I mean, how did you know…”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “No offense. But it’s really obvious.”

“... Is it?” Peter said faintly.

“Peter. You’re easier to read than _Basic Readers_. Even Steve could read that. And he needed glasses.”

Peter was silent for a moment. “Oh.”

“So,” Bucky prompted.

“So.” Peter hesitated. “I’m… I’m going to therapy later.”

Bucky tilted his head. “We’ve come full circle.”

“Huh?”

“When I started therapy, you reassured me. Now it’s my turn.”

“You don’t have to-”

Bucky held up a hand. “This is. My time to shine.”

Peter couldn’t help himself; he let out a little laugh, and Bucky’s eyes crinkled.

“So. Why are you nervous.”

“I… I guess because I have a new therapist,” said Peter. “And I haven’t been in a few months, and I… Well…”

Bucky gestured for Peter to continue.

“I don’t want to talk about some stuff,” Peter admitted, shrinking a bit. “I’m… I’m kinda scared.”

“What are you scared of,” Bucky asked gently.

“Um. What if… What if my whole perception of the world is wrong? I think all these things, and people keep telling me that I’m wrong about them, and… it makes me… it makes me… I dunno, I’m just…”

“Breathe,” Bucky cut in. “Also. So what.”

Peter sucked in some air. “Wh- What do you mean?”

“So what if you’re wrong.”

“Well… I… I can’t- I-”

Bucky put an arm around Quinn and shifted so he was sideways, facing Peter. “People are wrong about things a lot. And people are wrong about a lot of things. You’re seventeen goddamn years old. It’s okay not to know about how the world works.”

“But I’m old enough to know some stuff! Like… Like…”

“Peter,” Bucky said quietly, and Peter fell silent. “I’m a hundred and one years old. And _I_ don’t know half of what life is about. I had- I _have_. A lot of misconceptions. And I’m learning. I’ll be learning until the day I die, and that’s okay.”

Peter opened his mouth, but Bucky shushed him.

“I agree. I think that you’re wrong about a lot of things. But so am I. So is Steve. And Tony. And everyone else in this building, and everyone else in the world. It’s not fair to beat yourself up about it. Just be open to learn.”

“But,” Peter said, and then realized he had no argument.

Bucky looked satisfied with himself and started scratching behind Quinn’s ear. “Nailed it.”

While Peter’s brain was still having a minor crisis, the door opened and Steve came in, his shirt heavy with sweat and his brow glistening.

“Hey, Buck. Oh, hey there, Peter. Is everything alright? You look like you’re worried about something.”

Peter rubbed his hands over his face; his mind was spinning a bit, and he didn’t even want to think about the fact that Steve could look at him from across the room. “M’okay.”

“Alright,” said Steve, still concerned.

“Steve. Look who’s here,” said Bucky, and held up Quinn for Steve to see.

Steve grinned, making his way over to the couch to greet her. She whipped her tail around and began chewing happily on his finger when he held out his hand for her to sniff.

“Wow, those are sharp!” Steve remarked, pulling his pinky out of the needle-trap of doom.

“They are,” Bucky agreed. “She’s. Armed to the teeth.”

Steve groaned. “That was terrible.”

Bucky looked proud of himself. “Go take a shower. I can smell you from here.”

“You’re a jerk,” Steve said fondly.

“Back atcha, punk,” Bucky replied.

Steve ambled off, and Bucky put a hand on Peter’s shoulder.

“How are you doing.”

Peter shook his head and let out a slightly frustrated sigh. “I just- I don’t know why I never have the answers. I feel like an idiot all the time.”

“You have answers,” Bucky told him. “Or. You will. You just haven’t figured some of them out yet. I don’t know if you noticed. But you’re the youngest one here. You don’t have as much life experience. So. It’s fine not to know. And it’s fine to ask people who do.”

Peter leaned back into the couch, overwhelmed. Bucky nudged Quinn onto his lap; she happily took up residence and began sniffing his socks. He ran a hand over her back and immediately felt a bit better, so he dedicated both hands to stroking her puppy-sleek fur.

“I have a job for you,” said Bucky.

Peter inclined his head.

“Keep Quinn busy. So she doesn’t eat my knitting.”

“I can do that,” Peter said, relieved.

Bucky nodded, satisfied, and grabbed his knitting needles from the coffee table; they were adorned in baby-pink yarn, which was slowly becoming a sweater. Quinn immediately took interest, but Peter expertly distracted her with belly rubs. Bucky smiled in approval, tucked the ball of yarn out of sight on his other side, and began to knit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is Clint a baritone? I have no idea. If someone is musically adept and knows what kind of voice Jeremy Renner has, please let me know.
> 
> This chapter was originally going to contain the therapy session in it, but I was running out of time and I just wasn't satisfied with it, so you'll get that in the next chapter. Sorry to make you wait!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Comments are appreciated.
> 
> \---
> 
> Ponies: I don't have time to write a full pony story, but please just know that ponies are super cute and precious and lovely and omg I get to work with this adorable [Haflinger](https://www.google.com/search?tbm=isch&q=haflinger&chips=q:haflingers,g_1:horse&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiq0JyutdLdAhVGU98KHcJEBTwQ4lYIKCgA&biw=1401&bih=803&dpr=1) mare and she's _so precious_ and she has a perpetually wobbly lower lip and she's just such a wonderful unit of horse


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Therapy time!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: a purely theoretical, non-detailed discussion in a therapy setting of harming oneself

Peter inhaled shakily as he headed down the hall to one of the conference rooms a couple floors above the gym, though he supposed conference room wasn’t quite the word for it, since Tony had previously deemed it boring and demanded that it be painted bright red and filled with lava lamps and bean bags. Peter paused outside the door, his hands trembling as possibilities whirled through his mind; after a long moment, he knocked.

“Come in!” called a cheerful voice, and Peter slipped inside.

He was met with a petite woman dressed in black who honestly didn’t look much older than him. Her hair was bright red, cut in an asymmetrical bob, and she had visible tattoos and piercings. She smiled widely, her pale blue eyes crinkling.

“You must be Peter.” Her voice had a pleasant, lilting tone. “I’m Faye. I love your hair.”

Peter lifted his hand unconsciously to his purple-topped head. 

“Thanks?” he said, quiet and shy.

“You’re welcome,” Faye replied kindly. “Please, sit down. Pick a bean bag, any bean bag.”

Peter sank into a large bean bag about six feet away from her, twisting his hands together.

“I promise I don’t bite, despite my looks,” Faye told him.

Peter laughed, but he was pretty sure it just sounded like a desperate wheeze. Faye mercifully didn’t comment on the noise.

“Most therapists would ask you to talk about yourself first, but I have a feeling that would make you uncomfortable right now, so let’s talk about me,” she said. “My full name is Faye Cesare Sonnenschein, and I use she/her or they/them pronouns. My mom is from Turkey, my dad is from Germany, and I was born in Kansas. I can’t really speak Turkish or German, but I know Latin and I speak Spanish and Korean fluently. My favorite animal is a tie between tree frogs and goats, but my girlfriend doesn’t like amphibians and we don’t have a backyard, so we have three ferrets instead. Their names are Furball, Doofus, and Lil’ Fart. My favorite subject in high school was lunch and my favorite food is steamed asparagus. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you,” Peter echoed back, slightly stunned.

“Too much information all at once?” asked Faye, sympathetic.

“No,” Peter said quickly. “I mean… there’s just… How is asparagus your favorite food?”

Faye grinned. “It was my brother’s fault, really. He would pretend that asparagus was the best thing in the world whenever we had it, so I was always really excited to eat it. In retrospect, my parents probably put him up to it, but hey, it worked!”

Peter laughed, a little more genuine this time. “Also, did you or your girlfriend name the ferrets?”

“Well, their names were supposed to be Violet, Oliver, and Henrietta, but my girlfriend was away from home for a few months after we got them and I started calling them Furball, Doofus, and Lil’ Fart because they’re precious little idiots, and then they learned those names, so we’re stuck with it now.”

“They sound cute,” said Peter.

“They sure are. Do you have any pets?”

Peter shook his head. “Right now I’m dog-sitting Quinn, my friend Ned’s puppy, though.”

“A puppy? How old?”

“Five or six months, I think? She looks like she’s part Staffy, but Ned adopted her from a shelter, so we aren’t really sure. She’s _adorable_.”

“I bet! Puppy-sitting sounds like fun. Especially since you’re out of school for the summer now, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, finals just ended yesterday,” said Peter. “I think… it’s probably gonna take a week or two before I really realize I’m on vacation.”

“That seems to happen to plenty of people,” Faye agreed. “How was your school year?”

“It was okay,” Peter answered. “I mean, it wasn’t hard. Like, the school part was fine.”

“How about the social part?” asked Faye. “Is your friend Ned from school?”

“Yeah. I have Ned and MJ.” Peter smiled a bit. “They’re great.”

“Good,” Faye said warmly. “Do they make school better?”

“Yeah… Before, I guess it was easier for people to… I dunno, pick on me, but MJ is super intimidating, so she scares off a lot of jerks. She’s awesome.”

“It’s always nice to have people who have your back,” Faye agreed. “Did that happen a lot? You getting picked on?”

Peter shrugged. “Sort of. I mean… It’s usually just this one kid, Flash, but his friends aren’t great either. He says a lot of stuff, but I try to just ignore it.”

“I’m sorry you have to deal with that,” Faye said sympathetically. “Have you reported it?”

“Yeah. His dad’s rich, though, so there’s not a lot of, like, consequences for him, I guess. But it doesn’t matter, really. I’m fine.”

“It’s not really fair to you, is it, though?”

Peter looked a bit taken aback. “Well… life isn’t fair, either. I just have to deal with it.”

“Ideally speaking, though, you shouldn’t have to deal with it,” Faye pointed out.

“I… I guess,” Peter said, rubbing his neck. “But we don’t live in an ideal world, so I can’t really afford to think like that, can I?”

Faye tilted her head. “What do you think?”

Peter curled his shoulders a bit. “I don’t know.”

“Hm.” Faye studied him calmly. “Do you think you have a more optimistic or pessimistic view of things, generally speaking?”

Peter fiddled with the hem of his shirt, his fingers nervous. “I… I don’t know. I think it depends. Maybe both? Or neither? I would say I’m a realist, but…”

Faye stayed silent until Peter continued.

“... But I don’t even know what’s realistic anymore. I mean, I just… I’m always wrong about stuff, and I know I’m still pretty young, but I feel like I should know more than I do, y’know? And then when I expect that of myself, I get told that I shouldn’t, but… I’m almost an adult, and I have to figure life out soon, right? I don’t know, it just really, really stresses me out sometimes.”

“I think it’s a common misconception that adults have to have life figured out,” said Faye. “I didn’t realize that I wanted to study psychology until halfway through college. I still ask my aunt for help with my taxes every year. I had to call a plumber last week because I didn’t know that you’re not supposed to flush tissues down the toilet.”

Peter let out a slight huff of amusement through his nose, tight-lipped. 

“You don’t seem convinced,” Faye commented.

Peter opened and closed his mouth a few times before wringing out his hands in frustration. “I… I don’t really know how to say it.”

“Why is it difficult to describe?”

Peter looked down. “I don’t want to sound rude.”

“Ah.” Faye’s expression turned knowing. “You think you’re the exception.”

“Well, I…”

“Peter, you might be highly intelligent for your age, and also Spiderman, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re a teenager like any other,” Faye told him. “You shouldn’t be expected to know the meaning of life, or even what you want to be when you grow up. Would you hold Ned or MJ to the standards you hold yourself?”

“... No,” Peter said. “But, um. Sorry. How do you know… about the Spiderman thing?”

“It wasn’t hard to figure out,” Faye replied apologetically. “For me, that is. An average civilian wouldn’t suspect anything.”

Peter stared at her. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Faye told him. “I can keep a secret. And I’m legally obligated to, as well.”

“I… Okay,” Peter said weakly. “But… how did you…?”

“Well, I know that Spiderman is a baby Avenger, and that you live here. I know that Spiderman is highly intelligent, and your grades in school are pretty remarkable. I know that incidentally, Spiderman became active right around the time that your uncle passed away. I know that Tony Stark cares a lot about you, and that he also spends a lot of time working on technology for his ‘precious Spider-son’.”

Peter gaped a bit more. “He didn’t really say that, did he?”

“I’m pretty sure he’d been awake for twenty-six hours when I went to introduce myself to him,” Faye said, her lips twitching. “He was lacking in certain brain-to-mouth filters.”

Peter covered his face with his hands.

“Are you upset?” asked Faye, concerned now.

“No,” Peter said quickly, his voice muffled. “I just… don’t get it.”

“You don’t get how I figured it out, or why Tony Stark called you his Spider-son?”

“Neither.” Peter paused. “I don’t… Why would he spend twenty-six hours working on my suit?”

“Probably because, as I said earlier, he really cares about you,” Faye replied. “He loves you a lot. I know that, and I’ve spent a total of thirty minutes around him.”

Peter mumbled something and lifted his head.

“Come again?” Faye said politely.

Peter kept his eyes on his knees. “I… Um, I said I don’t deserve that.”

“I’m afraid it’s not up to you to make that decision for Tony,” Faye told him. “You can’t choose what other people want to give you, whether it be time, energy, or love.”

Peter didn’t reply.

“This is one of the times where you either have to deal with the fact that people care about you and want to spend their time showing it, or you have to talk to them about it. Though based on what I’ve seen of Tony Stark, if you told him to stop designing things for you, he’d probably just do it more just to spite you.”

Peter let out a shaky laugh. “Probably.”

Faye smiled at him. “Can we go back to something you said earlier? You agreed that you don’t hold Ned or MJ to the same standards that you hold yourself. Why is that?”

Peter fidgeted with his belt loop for a few moments before answering. “They don’t have the same responsibility that I do.”

“In terms of being Spiderman?”

Peter nodded.

“And why should you expect yourself to know more and be more mature just because you’re Spiderman?”

Peter looked surprised by the question. “Well, because… I… I’ve seen more, and I…”

“Just because you’ve seen more doesn’t mean that you should automatically know more about the world,” Faye told him. “Maybe you’ve seen things that most teens haven’t, but what does that have to do with personal finance, for example? Or with what you should or shouldn’t put in the microwave? Or with forming lasting interpersonal relationships?”

Peter didn’t seem to have an answer; he was too busy letting Faye’s words sink in.

“Do you sort of get what I mean?” Faye asked him. “You’re still a child, Peter. It’s okay to feel and act like one.”

“I think…” Peter started hesitantly. “My friend Bucky said the same thing. I think… I think maybe you’re sort of right. Like, the logic makes sense. I just…”

“You’re having trouble applying it to yourself?”

Peter inclined his head. “Yeah. I mean… It just goes against everything I’ve told myself, y’know?”

“That makes sense,” said Faye. “It’ll take time. Things like this always do.”

Peter wrinkled his nose, and Faye laughed.

“Is there anything in particular you want to talk about next?” she asked him.

Peter hesitated. “Um… Sometimes I get… really nervous, I guess? And it feels like… like…”

“Can you tell me how it feels physically? Sometimes it’s easier to describe concrete sensations than emotions,” said Faye.

“It, um, it feels like something… something is crushing…” Peter tapped his chest. “And also… sort of like getting shot in the stomach. And like everything is twisting and squeezing and I can’t… I can’t get away.”

“That sounds like some pretty bad anxiety to me,” Faye said. “How often would you say you feel that way?”

“Well… I mean, it’s always there a little bit. But it gets really bad, like, once every few days.”

“And what do you do when it gets really bad?”

“I just… deal with it.” Peter shrugged.

Faye gave him a wise look. “Does that mean you bottle it up until it gets out of hand?”

“I… Yeah,” Peter admitted, shrinking a little bit in his bean bag.

“Would you like me to teach you a few techniques that might help mitigate that?” Faye asked him.

“Yes, please,” Peter said quietly.

“Okay. The first one is pretty simple. I’m sure that you’ve heard that breathing helps with anxiety.”

Peter nodded.

“When you’re feeling really anxious, controlling your breathing will help you stop hyperventilating and ensure that your body is properly oxygenated. One way to do that is breathing in through your nose for five to seven seconds, holding it for about three seconds, and breathing out through your mouth for seven to nine seconds. You can count in your head, but I’ve actually found that looking at a timer can help a lot. Do you think you can try that sometime?”

“Yeah,” Peter murmured.

Faye’s lips turned up at the corners. “Good. Another thing that can be used in a pinch is distraction, though that’s not necessarily a preferred method, here. For example, when my girlfriend gets really anxious, she calls me or my mom or one of her friends. Do you have people you could call just to talk to?”

Peter started to shake his head, but stopped himself. “I just… I wouldn’t want to bother them.”

“Can you think about those people?”

Peter pictured Bucky, Ned, Steve, maybe even MJ or Hill or Natasha or Clint.

“Can you picture any of them being annoyed with you for calling them to talk for five minutes every once and a while?”

“I…” Peter tried, but he couldn’t seem to realistically picture any of them yelling at him. “No.”

“So do you think maybe you’ll give it a try?” asked Faye.

“Maybe,” Peter relented.

“Good,” Faye said. “Another thing you can do is listen to good music or watch funny videos. Your generation is pretty fond of doing those things as de-stressors, and it seems to work fairly well.”

Peter nodded, twisting his hands together.

“I’ll make you a deal. I want to ask two more questions, and then I’ll show you pictures of my ferrets and we can talk about fluffy animals if you’d like.”

Peter smiled a tiny bit. “Okay.”

“First question: what are you looking to get out of our sessions?”

“I don’t really know,” Peter said hesitantly. “In… In an ideal world, I think I’d want to learn how to get better. But… I don’t know if that’s possible. Sometimes, I… I don’t really think so.”

“You might not believe me right now, but better is certainly possible,” Faye told him. “It’s hard work, but I promise that it can happen.”

“I don’t know.” Peter said, his voice small. 

“What don’t you know?” asked Faye kindly.

“I… I don’t think it’ll go away.”

“I’m not here to take it away, Peter. I’m here to help you cope with it,” said Faye. “I just met you, and I believe you can do it.”

“What if I can’t?” Peter asked quietly.

“But what if you can?” Faye countered. “Isn’t it worth a shot?”

“... I guess so,” Peter admitted. “Yeah.”

“I’m afraid my second question isn’t quite as fun,” Faye said, her face dropping any hint of playfulness. “Have you ever thought about harming yourself, Peter?”

Slowly, Peter inclined his head.

“Do you presently think about harming yourself?”

Peter tilted his head back and forth in a sort-of kind of way.

“Do you have plans to harm yourself?”

Peter shook his head.

“Can I have a verbal answer?” Faye asked.

“I don’t have any plans,” Peter said.

“Do you promise that if you ever feel unsafe, you’ll tell someone right away?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, Peter,” said Faye. “I know it’s not easy to talk about, but I’m obligated to ask.”

Peter stayed silent.

“Would you like to see some ferret pictures?” Faye asked him.

“Yes, please,” Peter said quietly. 

Faye smiled and pulled her phone out of her pocket. “I have an album on my phone dedicated to my ferrets. Here, this is the first day they came home…”

Peter couldn’t help the little ‘aw’ that escaped him at the sight of three small, long, fluffy units of ferret curled into a tight ferret-ball.

“Aren’t they adorable?”

“Yeah,” Peter agreed, gazing at the next picture, which was the lightest colored ferret peeking out of an oven mitt.

“That’s Lil’ Fart,” Faye said. “He’s a goofball.”

\----

After the session ended, Peter trudged down the hall and took the elevator up to Bucky and Steve’s place, exhausted. He knocked softly on the door and Steve let him in several moments later, giving his shoulder a squeeze before ushering him over to the couch where Bucky was lying on his back; Quinn was flopped out and dozing on his chest.

“Was it okay,” Bucky asked; his voice would be inaudible were it not for Peter’s sensitive ears.

Peter nodded.

“Is your therapist acceptable.”

Peter nodded with a sliver more enthusiasm this time. “I like her.”

“Good.” Bucky looked satisfied. “Do you want to hide under blankets and watch Disney. Steve can make hot chocolate.”

Peter smiled a little bit. “Yeah. That sounds nice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Faye's character is inspired by the wonderful real-life [Faye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsPummeluff), who helped me develop this character and constantly gives me ideas for this fic! Truly a lovely person! Many thanks, my pal! :D
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading! Comments are appreciated. 
> 
> No time for a pony story this week, but here's a cute goat:  
> 


	33. A REAL CHAPTER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's adventure time!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back? Back again? DJ's back. That's right.
> 
> Boy am I happy to be posting this! It was actually supposed to have more content, but I didn't have time to write it, so I might tack it on to the next chapter. We shall see.
> 
> Anyway, without further ado, enjoy chapter 33!

A loud, repetitive sound pulled Peter from his sleep; he fumbled with his phone, but it wasn’t his alarm. It sounded more like… barking? Peter lurched into sitting position. Right. Quinn.

“D’you need to g’outside?” he asked her, rubbing his eyes.

She yipped in response.

“‘Kay,” he mumbled, slithering out of bed and pulling on pants. 

It felt early, much too early to be awake in the summertime. His point was proven by the fact that it was still dark outside, which meant that it was before 5:30, which just wasn’t right. 

It took him seven tries to buckle Quinn’s harness, four to get her leash on, and about two minutes to find his left shoe. Finally, he stumbled out the door to the elevator, his arm flopping as Quinn tugged in anticipation. He nearly fell asleep on the trip to the lobby and narrowly avoided braining himself on the front doors. Quinn’s tail swirled like a windmill as they stepped out onto the sidewalk; Peter smiled, his eyes drooping.

“Good thing you’re cute,” he told her. “Otherwise this would be a lot less fun.”

She led them a couple blocks down to Bryant Park, where the only other people around were early-morning runners and a few sleeping homeless folks. Usually, Peter would offer them a granola bar or a meal, but he didn’t want to bother them so early. He watched Quinn sniff around; he yawned into his hand, swaying a bit. 

“I’m tired,” he informed Quinn, who didn’t seem to be listening.

To occupy himself, he pictured his bed in all its glory, warm covers, fluffy pillows, springy mattress. After nearly ten minutes with no bathroom-going, Peter lifted his hand to his face.

“You don’t even have to pee, do you?”

Quinn tried to lick a piece of chewing gum stuck to the pavement, and Peter groaned.

“C’mon, we’re going home.”

Quinn looked disappointed, but followed him back to the Tower, where they crossed the lobby and boarded the rightmost elevator.

“Mr. Parker,” said JARVIS.

Peter blinked up at the ceiling. “Hi, JARVIS.”

“Sergeant Barnes would like me to tell you that he’ll be making breakfast at six, if you’re interested.”

Peter blinked again.

“What would you like me to tell him?” asked JARVIS.

“Oh, um, yeah, that’s… that’s good,” Peter said. “Thanks.”

“Of course.”

Peter leaned on the side of the elevator the rest of the way up to his room; when he and Quinn entered, he fumbled to remove her harness and then launched himself into bed, burrowing under the sheets. To his relief, sleep came to him almost instantaneously. 

\----

A fantastic couple hours of not being awake later and Peter was heading to Steve and Bucky’s apartment, tapping on the door with Quinn in tow. Steve opened the door a few moments later, holding a batter-coated spoon and sporting an apron covered in heart-eye emojis.

“Morning,” Steve said. “How do you feel about crêpes?”

“Excellent? I feel excellent about crêpes,” Peter replied. “Also, nice apron.”

Steve sighed, looking put-upon. “It was a birthday present from Tony. Buck makes me wear it.”

“For good reason,” said Bucky, poking his head out of the kitchen. “Also. Steve. I need the spoon.”

Steve looked down at the spoon as if he was surprised to find it in his grasp before striding over and handing it to Bucky.

“Thanks.” Bucky’s eyes crinkled at the sight of Peter and Quinn; he beckoned Peter over as he headed back to the stove.

Peter released Quinn and made his way into the kitchen, watching as Steve began pulling plates out of a cabinet, then forks from a drawer. Bucky flipped a crêpe from his pan to a plate, then poured out more batter.

“Can I help with anything?” he asked.

Bucky tilted his head. “Are you asking because you feel guilty about not doing any work.”

Peter opened his mouth, then closed it, which seemed to suffice as an answer.

“In that case. You can taste-test the nutella.” Bucky nodded at the two jars of nutella that were sitting on the counter. “One is from D.C. and one is from Brooklyn and Steve thinks they taste different.”

Peter offered a little smile. “What do you think?”

“I think he’s an idiot,” Bucky said, but he didn’t sound serious. “Spoons are in the drawer.”

Peter pulled out two spoons, opening each jar of Nutella carefully and giving them a sniff.

“They smell the same,” he said.

Bucky nodded, looking faintly smug while plating another crepe. Peter dipped the first spoon into the jar on the right, studying the nutella carefully before placing it in his mouth. He waited a long moment, considering the taste, then repeated the process with the second spoon and left jar. He furrowed his brow in concentration.

“What’s the verdict,” asked Bucky.

“They taste the same,” Peter said, and Bucky looked victorious. “But the consistencies are different.”

“See? They’re different!” Steve insisted.

“They still taste the same,” Bucky said.

Steve shook his head. “We’ll just agree to disagree on this one.”

“I agree that you’re an idiot.”

Steve pouted, and Bucky looked away, huffing. 

“Quit it with those eyes. You know you’re wrong.”

“I’m not! They’re different.”

“I’m cooking you breakfast,” Bucky reminded.

Steve ceased his argument in favor of setting the table. Bucky looked pleased with himself.

“Good work, Peter.”

“Thanks?” Peter said.

Bucky smiled, slipping the last crêpe onto a plate and turning off the stove. Peter followed him to the table, where Steve was waiting. They sat down; Steve picked up his fork, but Bucky stopped him.

“Nuh uh, pal. You’re forgetting something.”

Steve groaned. “Please don’t.”

“You’ve gotta say grace.”

“I swear, Buck…”

Bucky cleared his throat. “Grace.”

Peter watched as he proceeded to dig into his crêpes, taking a big bite before looking at Peter and Steve expectantly.

“Um. Grace?” said Peter.

Bucky nodded approvingly, and Peter began spreading Nutella (from Brooklyn) across his own crêpes.

Steve sighed. “Grace.”

“Attaboy, Stevie.”

“Shut up, Buck, you jerk,” Steve said, but it sounded a bit fond.

\----

After filling up on crêpes, Bucky played tug-of-war with Quinn while Steve and Peter loaded the dishwasher. 

“We should take Quinn exploring,” Bucky said to them once they finished. “She would like that, I think.”

Peter grinned. “She would. She woke me up at, like, four for a walk. I felt like a zombie, so she probably didn’t have a lot of fun.”

“At least she had a chance to do her business,” said Steve.

“That was the worst part! She didn’t even go!”

Bucky pulled on the rope and made a tsking sound. “That ain’t right, sweetheart.”

“Should we go to Central Park?” asked Peter. “Ned and MJ and I took her once and she loved it.”

“Sounds good,” Steve said. “Are we going now?”

Bucky nodded. “There shouldn’t be many people this early. But we should go incognito just in case. Me n’ Steve, anyway.”

“That’s smart,” Peter agreed.

“Be right back,” said Bucky, giving Quinn a pat before disappearing down the hall.

Steve followed, leaving Peter to wrestle a wriggling Quinn into her harness and take up the game of tug-of-war during the wait. 

Upon returning, Steve wore a baseball hat, crappy plastic sunglasses, and a tattered hoodie that looked like one of Clint’s. Bucky’s braces were less noticeable over a pair of black jeans; up top, he sported a blue flannel, round shades, and a beanie that screamed New York hipster. Peter was honestly a bit surprised at how average they looked. 

“Ready to go,” asked Bucky.

“Yep!” Peter said, grinning.

Bucky’s eyes crinkled with equal enthusiasm. They headed for the door, Quinn leading the way, and made their way down the hall to the elevators. The doors to the leftmost’s slid open, and Quinn barked at the short figure already standing just inside.

“Hi,” Bruce said after a moment of staring at Steve and Bucky’s outfits.

“Can we join you?” asked Steve.

Bruce hurried to step back, tripping over his feet and bumping into the wall behind him. His cheeks colored in embarrassment; Quinn looked befuddled, and Bucky let out a little snort.

“Don’t laugh,” Steve said, admonishing him as they entered the elevator.

“It’s okay, one time at school, I tripped down an entire flight of stairs and walked into a door,” Peter offered to Bruce.

“That… sounds painful,” Bruce replied.

“I mean, the broken tailbone sucked, but it healed pretty quick! The worst part was the black eye from the door. I had to, uh, borrow some makeup to cover it up, but the makeup was a little too dark, so I looked like a zombie, but only half of me. It was… Yeah, that day wasn’t so great.”

Bucky’s eyebrows grew severe. “When. Did this happen.”

“Oh, uh, it was a while ago,” Peter said, waving a hand.

Bucky let it go, but with a distinctly displeased look in his eyes that indicated that they’d be returning to the conversation later.

“So… Where are you guys going?” asked Bruce, reaching down to pet Quinn.

“On an adventure!” said Peter. “We’re taking her to Central Park. Do you want to come?”

Bruce looked taken aback. “I… Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Why not,” Bucky said.

Bruce raised his eyebrows. 

“If you’re worried about it, you can hold Quinn. That way, if something happens, she’ll distract you,” Peter told him.

“Oh, no, I don’t want to hurt her,” said Bruce.

“You won’t,” Peter replied.

“But-”

“You won’t,” Bucky said.

“I-”

“You won’t,” Steve asserted, and with that, Bruce gave up his argument.

“Building JARVIS,” said Bucky, looking at the ceiling.

“How can I help you, Sergeant Barnes?” 

“Why is the elevator not moving. Is it broken.”

“It is not. I assumed that Dr. Banner would also prefer to go incognito, so I’ve stopped on his floor to allow him to get his preferred form of concealment.”

Bucky nodded in approval.

“Thanks, JARVIS,” Bruce said; he slipped out of the elevator and disappeared down the hall.

“What do you think his disguise will be?” Peter asked.

“Maybe something baggy,” Bucky replied after some consideration.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve seen him incognito before,” said Steve. “I’ve only seen him in button-ups, lab coats, and suits.”

Peter’s question was answered when Bruce returned in a bright Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts, and a wide-brimmed mesh hat. Everyone stared at him for a long moment.

“Wow,” said Peter, slightly astonished. “You look like a tourist dad.”

“That is… quite something,” Steve agreed.

“Probably the best thing I’ve seen all day,” Bucky commented. “Aside from Quinn.”

“Is it too much?” Bruce said, looking down at his nylon-strapped sandals.

“No,” Bucky replied. “It’s perfect.”

Bruce ducked his head and stepped on to the elevator. “I hope Tony doesn’t see me.”

“You’d never hear the end of it,” Peter agreed.

Bruce glanced at JARVIS’s camera; Bucky, ever-noticing, cleared his throat.

“I solemnly swear. That I am up to no good,” he said.

“Incognito mode engaged,” JARVIS replied cheerfully.

“No way!” Peter exclaimed. “That’s a thing?”

“Barton told me about it,” said Bucky. His lips twitched. “And then I read the books. And it made sense.”

“That’s amazing,” Peter said with a grin.

“Tony _would_ program something like that.” Bruce sounded droll. “What exactly does it do? Just turn off the cameras, or…?”

“Cameras go off. Audio is only picked up when specifically requested.”

“Nice,” said Peter.

Steve, who had seemed to be growing more and more puzzled as the conversation went on, finally spoke. “Sorry, um… I think I’m missing something? Probably a modern reference?”

“It’s a line from Harry Potter,” Bruce told him. “You should read it.”

“I started, but…” Steve shrugged. “I got busy.”

Bucky lifted a hand to Steve’s shoulder. “Pal. You are missing out.”

“I’m getting the idea,” Steve said wryly.

The elevator dinged, and they stepped out into the lobby. Quinn scrambled forward, straining on her leash. Peter laughed.

“We’re going! Don’t worry, lil’ muffin.”

“That’s. Adorable,” said Bucky. “She is definitely a muffin.”

“Right?” Peter agreed. “She’s a sweet little bean.”

“A precious pumpkin,” offered Bruce.

“A cutie pie,” Bucky added.

“A beautiful walnut,” said Peter.

Steve looked bemused. “A walnut?”

“Why not?” Peter replied.

“A little dewdrop,” Bucky continued. “A darlin’ clementine.”

Steve’s smile broadened. “I remember that song.”

Bucky bumped their shoulders together and unbalanced himself, but didn’t stumble. He seemed unbothered.

“Here, Bruce, do you want to take Quinn?” asked Peter.

“Oh, I don’t-”

Bucky interrupted Bruce by taking the leash and looping it around his wrist, pressing his fingers closed over the thick nylon.

“There.” Bucky looked satisfied.

Bruce stared at the leash, then at Quinn, who was sniffing at a lamppost, then at Steve, perhaps looking for help.

“Pepper told me the other day that spending time with animals can be very beneficial,” Steve informed him.

“You oughtta take the advice for yourself, too,” Bucky muttered.

Steve wrinkled his forehead, and Bucky waved a dismissive hand. The four of them stopped to wait for the walk sign, and Quinn strained on her leash in displeasure.

“Sorry, little penguin. You can’t walk into traffic,” Peter informed her.

Bruce smiled, his eyes bright and warm under his hideous hat. Steve opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but seemed to change his mind.

“Go on,” Bucky prompted, poking his arm.

“It just reminded me of a book from… ‘37? ‘38?” Steve said hesitantly. “It was more for kids, but I liked the illustrations. Mr. Popper’s Penguins?”

Peter grinned. “That’s exactly what I was talking about! I read the book when I was, like, ten. There’s a movie for it, too!”

“Of course there is,” said Steve, but he looked happy.

The walk sign lit up and they stepped out into the street, much to Quinn’s delight. She sniffed at a manhole cover, then tried to lick at a stopped car before Bruce gave her a little tug.

“That’s not a good idea,” he told her.

“It would taste gross, too,” Peter added.

Oblivious, Quinn pranced on, attempting to accost various passersby with affection as they drew closer to Central Park. Upon their arrival, her tail began to whip around rapidly in delight.

“If you’re lucky, Stevie might run with you,” Bucky said to her. “But you’ve gotta ask nicely.”

Instead of taking Bucky’s advice, Quinn nosedived into the grass, grabbing mouthfuls of it and rolling around in a flurry of wiggles and small teeth. Peter pulled out his phone just in time to capture some footage; he ended the video just after Quinn rose to her feet, shaking herself and revealing a back covered in grass stains. 

“That’ll be fun to clean up,” Bruce remarked.

“Noses,” said Bucky, touching his nose.

Peter hurriedly lifted his finger to do the same; Bruce mirrored him. Bucky’s mouth curled into a smile.

“You’ve gotta do it, Stevie.”

Steve looked confused. “What?”

“You’ve gotta clean. The bouncing bean.”

“Ooh, rhymes!” Peter exclaimed.

Bucky’s eyes crinkled, and he looked back to Steve. “You didn’t touch your nose.”

“What does that have to do with cleaning Quinn?” asked Steve in utter bewilderment

“It’s a thing,” Bucky informed him. “It’s called noses. When nobody wants t’do something, you say noses. And whoever puts their finger on their nose last has to do it.”

Steve frowned. “It can be argued that I didn’t lose because I didn’t know the rules.”

“Sorry, pal,” Bucky replied. “When we did it in Hair Club and I didn’t know the rules, I still had to call for pizza. So. Don’t be salty.”

Peter snorted loudly and coughed into his hand in attempt to mask it; Bruce looked amused. Bucky seemed proud of himself. Steve looked down at Quinn’s green back, a woeful expression on his face.

“How do you even remove grass stains?” he asked. “Is it possible?”

“Sure,” Bruce said. “Though it’s difficult, because grass stains are essentially natural dye stains made of organic matter mixed with chlorophyll and other pigmented compounds like xanthophylls and carotenoids. When they meet natural fabrics like cotton, they tend to bond to the fabric fibers themselves, which means the stain is embedded in the makings of the fabric itself. Luckily, or unluckily, depending how you look at it, Quinn isn’t made of cotton fibers. But since she’s an animal, most heavy-duty solutions for stain removal like bleach are off the table. I’d recommend giving white vinegar a try, and then using soap to finish the job.”

“Vinegar and soap,” Steve echoed. “Alright.”

“Not at the same time, though,” said Peter. “Vinegar’s acidic and soap’s a base, so together, they’d kinda just cancel each other out.”

“That’s right.” Bruce agreed. “Unsaponified soap is pretty useless.”

“Now you’re just showing off,” Bucky muttered, failing to look very grumpy about it.

Peter lifted a hand to offer Bruce a high-five. “Nerd power!”

Bruce tapped Peter’s hand, smiling. Quinn barked at a suspicious-looking squirrel, straining at her harness.

“She wants to chase it,” Bucky noted.

“Sorry, cupcake. We can’t let you off your leash,” Peter told Quinn apologetically.

Steve shuffled his feet. “I could take her.”

Bucky’s eyes lit up with a rare twinkle. “That is. A great idea.”

“What’s a great idea?” Peter asked, curious.

“Just watch.”

Peter watched as Bruce handed the leash over to Steve, who wrapped it securely around his wrist. He glanced around, then started jogging towards the tree in which the squirrel has disappeared. Quinn got the idea pretty quickly; she scrambled forward, and Steve broke out into a run. They flew across the grass, Quinn’s tongue lolling, before skidding to a stop at the base of the tree. Quinn yipped up at the leaves, her nails scraping at the bark. Steve said something to her, pointing at a looming oak further down the park. Quinn took one last look for the squirrel before dashing off in the oak’s direction. Steve followed, and the two of them gathered speed until their legs were an indistinguishable blur.

“Wow,” Bruce remarked.

“It’s good for them to get their energy out,” said Bucky.

“The puppy, or Steve?”

“Both.” Bucky’s lips twitched. “Otherwise. They get all jumpy.”

Steve and Quinn reached the tree; Peter could see two squirrels darting into the branches for cover.

“Amazing,” Bucky said.

Bruce and Peter stayed silent, prompting him on.

“That someone with such a big top half. Can move that fast.”

Peter laughed, and Bucky looked pleased.

“You know, it might actually help him,” Bruce mused. “If he leans into it, he’d be forced to move faster so he doesn’t fall over.”

“Gravity,” Bucky said with a nod. Then, “Why do you think. I stay balanced.”

Bruce glanced over. “With your arm?”

Bucky pressed his lips together.

“I’d say there are three main reasons. The first being that the arm is anchored to… Well, it’s anchored pretty deeply in your body, and the closer to your core, the easier it is to balance. The second reason is that this arm Tony made you is much closer to the weight of a flesh arm than your old one. And number three is that you’re used to compensating for it. I expect if you suddenly didn’t have a prosthetic, you’d experience pain while you adapted to the new distribution of weight. Even removing a few pounds would throw you off.”

Bucky was silent, contemplating, watching Steve and Quinn run around beneath the oak tree. Eventually, he gave Peter a nudge.

“Bet you can’t run faster than them.”

Peter’s face brightened. “If it turns out I can, will you video it? ‘Cause MJ and Ned keep bugging me about it.”

“Deal,” said Bucky. 

Peter jogged down to the oak tree; Quinn greeted him by jumping at his legs and covering his hands in kisses. Steve grinned, almost childlike. 

“Want to race?” Peter asked him.

“From here to the carousel and back?” Steve suggested, eyes gleaming.

“Sure,” agreed Peter. “Should we ask Bucky and Bruce to take Quinn? I don’t want her to get tired.”

Steve nodded. “Good idea.”

The two of them loped back up to where Bruce and Bucky were standing; Steve handed Quinn’s leash to Bruce, who took it and crouched down to scratch her head. Bucky pulled out his phone.

“Ready?” asked Steve.

“Yeah!”

Bucky’s finger hovered over the start button on his timer.

Steve looked down. “Bruce, will you count us off?”

Pleasantly surprised, Bruce inclined his head. “Three… Two… One… Go!”

Bucky started the clock, and Peter and Steve scrambled off. Peter’s vision became a tunnel, his world narrowing to sucking in air and expelling it. Grass tore beneath his feet; with each step he propelled himself faster. His eyes began to water from the wind as he drew closer to the carousel. As soon as he reached it, he pivoted and took off again, pumping his arms to regain speed. He could hear his heart thrumming in his chest. He felt light, like he was flying. Bucky, Bruce, and Quinn filtered into sight and he locked in on them, pushing faster. He could see Quinn wagging her tail furiously, Bucky smiling, and Bruce, for some reason, looking stunned. Peter was so focused on his mark that he failed to realize how fast he was coming in; he swerved at the last minute, passing them as he decelerated and then jogging back to join them. Steve wasn’t with them. Had he finished and gone to get water?

“How much did I lose by?” he asked, panting. 

Bucky let out a laugh and pointed in the direction of the carousel. “Do you see that lump all the way over there.”

Peter squinted, then nodded.

“That’s Steve,” said Bucky.

Peter ran his fingers through his hair. “So he’s doing a second lap? Oh gosh, that’s embarrassing.”

Bucky facepalmed.

“Is it his _third_?” Peter asked in despair.

“No, it’s only his first,” said Bruce, still looking mildly shocked. “You must’ve done almost a mile in… In…”

“Forty-two seconds,” Bucky provided.

Bruce gaped at both of them. Steve was closing in; he was leaning into his pace, definitely using his body weight in his favor. He grinned at Peter as he barreled to the finish, leaving marks in the grass as he skidding to a stop.

“What was my time, Buck?” he called, puffing.

“A minute n’ three.” Bucky’s lips twitched. “Slowpoke.”

Steve looked offended, but there was no heat behind it. He rejoined them, clapping Peter’s shoulder.

“You’re fast. The only other person I know who can beat me is Thor, and that’s a narrow margin.”

Peter’s face lit up. “Does that mean I’m faster than Thor?”

“I think so,” said Steve.

Peter pumped his fist. “This is gonna get me so much street cred!”

“You have a secret identity,” Bucky reminded him.

“Well, with MJ and Ned, at least!”

Bucky nodded. “Fair.” Then, “Oh no.”

“What?” Steve looked worried.

“I forgot. To film Peter.”

“Oh, it’s okay!” Peter said. “We’ll race again another time.”

Steve smiled. “I’ll have to do some training.”

“I don’t think you’d be able to beat him, even with training,” Bruce said apologetically. “You’re not built for speed; he’s much more aerodynamic.”

“I could carry weights,” Peter offered, but Steve waved a hand.

“It wouldn’t be fair. You’re not used to them.”

“Something’s wrong with your priorities,” Bucky said, shaking his head. “Only you. Would say no to handicapping your opponent. Well. And probably Peter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all- I'm sorry if spelling crêpe with an accent circonflexe is annoying; it's just very deeply ingrained in me! To forget it would be a terrible sin. Also, I wrote this chapter out of order and didn't thoroughly check it for spelling, so if you see something glaringly off, please let me know!
> 
> Second- [ Here's](https://www.quora.com/How-fast-can-Spider-Man-RUN) an interesting thingy about how fast Spidey can run! I modified his speed in this a fair amount for the sake of semi-realism and also in attempt to ignore the fact that math exists, but it's cool to read about! I also read somewhere that Spidey is faster than Thor (without his hammer) and it's now canon here because I love Peter being faster than everyone.
> 
> Third- I no longer have the plague, which is great! However, the next couple weeks are looking pretty busy, so I doubt I'll be updating a week from today. I'll do my best to post a new chapter in two weeks, and if not then, definitely three weeks from now! Thank you all so much for understanding; you folks are the best! Seriously, I'm sending you all virtual cookies of your favorite variety. And hugs, if you enjoy those. 
> 
> Many thanks! -DJ


	34. only a week late! (maybe more, but let's pretend it's a week)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> French, guns, and doghouses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For any French that isn't translated by Hill or Natasha, there are hyperlinks! If you're on mobile, I'll put them in the end notes.

The first thing that Peter heard when he stepped out of the elevator onto the common floor with Quinn at his heels was Clint belting out the lyrics to Boulevard of Broken Dreams, quickly followed by the sizzling of bacon. Quinn’s tail wiggled with interest, and Peter picked up his pace into the kitchen. Hill waved from the table, where she was nursing a plate of waffles. Peter waved back, watching as Quinn scrambled at Clint’s legs, accosting him for a bite of bacon. Clint continued to sing, setting down the spatula before taking Quinn’s paws and jigging her around to the music. Quinn stretched up to lick his face and proceeded to nibble at his fingers.

“Don’t burn the bacon!” said Hill, and Clint straightened up, grabbing the spatula.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I would never.”

Hill rolled her eyes. Quinn, upon noticing that Hill also had food, scurried over and plopped down to beg.

“Dogs don’t get people food,” Hill told her.

Quinn blinked, tilting her head. Hill crossed her arms, though Peter could see her resolve fading.

“She’s got your number!” said Clint gleefully during the song’s instrumental.

Hill glared at him, and he pivoted back to the bacon. While his back was turned, Hill slipped a few crumbs to Quinn under the table; Peter pretended not to notice. 

“How are you this morning?” she asked.

“Pretty good,” Peter replied with a shrug. “How are you?”

“Not bad, thanks.” She smiled a little bit. “I heard you’re faster than Steve.”

Peter’s cheeks went pink. “I mean, I dunno. He might’ve let me win…”

Clint turned, waving his spatula at Peter. “Nuh uh, a little birdie told me it wasn’t even _close_ , Petey-Pie. There’s no way he threw it. You won fair and damn square!”

Peter ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck. Clint gestured again with the spatula for emphasis; a few drops of grease fell to the floor, and Quinn descended on the spill in seconds. 

“Look who’s feeding the dog people food now,” Hill said, clasping her hands primly.

“Aw, shut up. That didn’t count.”

Peter covered a laugh; he took a seat beside Hill in front of a waiting plate of waffles. Hill lifted an elbow onto the table and rested her chin her hand, looking at Clint.

“I heard you’re in Nat’s doghouse,” she said to him.

Clint shook his head. “How are you always up to date on the gossip in this place? Have you been using Barnes’s bugs or something?”

“I listen,” Hill said, slightly smug.

Clint gave her a serious glance. “That’s rude to say to someone with bad ears, Maria.” 

For a split second, Hill looked panicked, and then Clint cracked up laughing.

“You’re such an ass,” she muttered.

“At least it’s a nice ass,” replied Clint.

Peter half-choked on a bite of waffle. Everyone, including Quinn, looked concerned.

“I’m fine,” he gasped, reaching for his juice.

“O-kay,” Clint said, dubious. “Just don’t die, ‘cause Tony would kill me a little bit and Barnes would kill me _a lot_ , and then both of us would be dead and there would be two funerals to plan instead of just one.”

Hill rubbed her forehead. “It’s not even noon and I can already feel a headache coming on.”

“You have no one to blame but yourself,” Clint told her, looking pleased with himself. “Anyway, what were we talking about?”

“Why Nat’s mad at you,” said Hill.

“Ah.” Clint fiddled with the spatula. “Well, _mad_ is a bit of a strong word. She’s just… displeased.”

“Why is she displeased with you, then?” Hill asked.

Clint muttered something imperceptible and began whistling to the music.

“Clint.” Hill’s eyebrows lowered into a truly scary expression. The thought passed through Peter’s head that she made Bucky look like a fluffy kitten.

“Hey, hey, lighten up with the glare of doom! I didn’t do anything!”

“Well, you must’ve done _something_.”

Clint tried to scratch his head, but instead hit himself with the spatula. “FU- OW! That’s toasty!”

Peter nearly choked in laughter a second time. Hill snorted into the back of her hand.

“Did you burn yourself?” she asked.

Clint felt his face tenderly. “I don’t think so.”

“Karma, then. For not answering the first time.”

Clint sulked a bit before replying with, “It’s really not that bad. I just… forgot to do some cleaning.”

“Define ‘some cleaning’,” said Hill. “Did you leave socks on the floor or did you sprinkle on the seat in the middle of the night and forget to wipe it up? What level of sinning are we talking about here?”

Clint rubbed his face with his free hand this time. “From an average perspective, or in Nat’s book?”

Hill tilted her head, and then her chin lifted in sudden understanding. “Did you forget to clean your guns?”

Clint scratched the back of his leg with his opposite foot and poked at the bacon.

“That would do it,” said Hill. 

Peter looked between the two of them in confusion, and Hill gave him a wry smile.

“Nat doesn’t take kindly to firearms being neglected,” she told him.

“Yeah, I don’t really use my guns, y’know, because of the whole archery thing, so… I kind of tend to forget about them? I mean, I know they’re there, but like…” Clint lifted his hands and shrugged. More grease dripped from the spatula, and Quinn faceplanted on the hardwood floor in her haste to be a living vacuum cleaner.

“Is she okay?” asked Hill, twisting in her seat to peer at the puppy.

Quinn flailed her tail as she polished off the drop of grease.

“I think so,” Peter said. “Quinn! C’mere!”

Quinn trotted over, bright-eyed, sniffing Peter’s hands as he ran them over her head.

“She seems fine,” Clint agreed. “Dogs are amazingly resilient. We should aspire to be like dogs.”

“But maybe not, like, entirely,” said Peter. “I don’t know… The butt-sniffing would be kinda weird.”

Hill laughed, and Clint gave a nod.

“True.”

Peter watched as he turned off the burner, using a pot holder to bring the pan to the table. Quinn maintained a steady focus on the bacon as Clint served Peter, Hill, and himself, setting down the pan before taking a seat across from Peter.

“Bone apple tit,” he said cheerfully, digging in.

Hill thumped his head. “You know enough French to say it properly.”

“It’s not as fun that way,” Clint sighed, but conceded. “ _Bon appétit._ ”

“That’s right,” said Hill. “Set a good example for Peter.”

“Peter isn’t even learning French!”

Hill turned to Peter. “Do you want to learn some French today?”

“Um…” Peter looked from Clint to Hill. “Sure?”

Hill leaned back in her seat, the corner of her lip twitching at Clint. “Excellent. You can start with _bon appétit_. It translates literally to ‘good appetite,’ but it doesn’t really have an English equivalent. You say it.”

Peter hesitated a moment before saying, “Bon… appateet?” 

“Close,” said Hill. “Try again. More like _bohn appetee_.”

“ _Bon appétit,_ ” Peter repeated.

Hill nodded. “Better. Good job.”

Peter smiled at his bacon. Getting praise from Hill was like finding a twenty on the sidewalk, he thought.

“Petey-Pie, are you doing anything else today?” asked Clint.

“I don’t think so,” Peter replied.

“Wanna learn how to clean a gun?”

“You’re not allowed to use him for free labor,” Hill warned.

“It’s educational! You never know if he’ll need that information someday. You’re always telling me to be prepared, right?”

Hill pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re impossible. Fine.”

Clint turned back to Peter, grinning. “So? What do you think?”

“... Sure?” said Peter, somewhat bemused.

“Sweet! It’s education day! French and gun cleaning! It’ll be great.”

Hill let out a long, despondent sigh.

\----

When Peter, Clint, and Hill entered Clint and Natasha’s apartment with Quinn in tow, they found Natasha sitting in a cushy armchair in front of the TV, eating cheese puffs. She looked away from Clint, crossing her legs as she tossed a cheese puff into the air and caught it in her mouth. Quinn scrambled over to her, plopping down to beg with wide eyes. Natasha leaned down and scooped her up, offering her a small cheese puff and kissing the top of her head.

“ _Salut_ ,” said Hill, shepherding Peter to the couch. “ _Je vais lui apprendre un peu de français. Est-ce que tu veux m’aider?_ ”

Natasha popped another cheese puff into her mouth, chewing contemplatively before answering, “ _D’accord._ ”

Hill looked satisfied.

“ _D’accord_ means ‘okay’,” Natasha told Peter. “Repeat it.”

“ _D’accord_ ,” Peter said tentatively.

Natasha nodded. “ _Bien_.”

“That means ‘good’, doesn’t it? Like in Spanish?”

“Correct. Having some Spanish will help you with French, but you’ll struggle with pronouncing written words at first. The letters make different sounds.”

Hill made a sound of agreement, grabbing a paper napkin from the coffee table and producing a pen out of nowhere. She scribbled down a couple words and handed the napkin to Peter.

“Say these how you’d think you would pronounce them.”

Peter squinted at the words, which read _dehors, feuille_. After a long moment, he looked up at Hill, whose lips seemed to be twitching.

“Go on,” Natasha said, leaning forward with an arm around Quinn. “We won’t judge you.”

Peter scratched the back of his head. “I just… um…”

Hill lifted her eyebrows.

“I don’t…”

“You can do it!” Clint shouted from the next room over. “I believe in you!”

Peter looked back at the paper; he mouthed the first word a few times before whispering, “Dee… hores?”

Hill snorted; Natasha managed to maintain a poker face. Peter could feel his cheeks burning.

“See, that would make sense,” said Hill. “But it’s actually pronounced _duh-or_. It means ‘outside’..”

Peter rubbed his neck. “But… where did the S go?”

“In French, S’s at the end of words are often silent,” Natasha told him cheerfully. “Try the next one.”

Peter dropped his eyes to the paper, staring woefully at the word _feuille_. “Um… Fee-oo-iyee?”

“In French, an _e_ without any accents is pronounced _erh_ ,” said Hill. And sometimes, _e_ ’s at the ends of words aren’t pronounced at all.”

Peter nodded slowly. “So… _Feu-ee_?”

“Not bad,” Natasha said.

Peter smiled at the praise.

“You’re about five steps ahead of Clint,” Hill told him. “He gave up on French because… What was it, Nat?”

“‘The little accents are too goddamn annoying’,” Natasha quoted. 

Clint ambled around the corner, a large bag in his arms. “They are!”

Natasha rolled her eyes at him, turning back to the TV.

“Nat, look!” Clint said, producing several guns from the bag. “Guess what I’m doing!”

Natasha didn’t dignify him with a response, focusing her attention on Quinn.

“Are you proud of me?” he asked hopefully.

“Dog, meet house,” Hill quipped.

Clint flipped her off, passing one of the guns to Peter, who held it away from his body like it might go off at any moment.

“It’s not loaded,” Clint assured him. “Actually, wait. Let me check.”

Hill let out a furious, “Clint!”

Clint grabbed the gun from Peter, wincing at Hill’s tone as he disassembled it with swift, practiced movements and peered inside. “It’s not, it’s not! We’re all good.”

Hill gave him a wrathful slap over the head. “ _Imbécile!_ ”

“That means ‘idiot’,” he told Peter, rubbing ruefully at the bump. 

Peter wrinkled his brow. “I thought you didn’t speak French?” 

“I can carry a conversation, but really, you don’t need to know French to figure that one out, coming from her.” He grinned, which earned him another slap. “Anyways, gun cleaning!” 

“Gun cleaning,” Peter repeated. “Do you use… like… soap and water?”

Natasha made an offended sound; Hill just looked amused.

“Nope!” Clint said, reassembling the gun without glancing down at his hands.. “Solvent and gun oil.”

Peter’s cheeks flushed. “Oh.” 

Clint handed the gun back to him with a grin. “Once you know it’s unloaded, the first step is to take it apart. What d’you think comes first?”

Peter looked at the gun in consideration. “The, uh, where the bullets go?”

“You got it! The magazine. Press the release just there, and… yep! It pops right out. Nice.”

Peter placed the magazine carefully on the coffee table. “What comes next?”

“Next, you open the slide to check for bullets in the chamber. It’s a good habit to get into, even if I just did it two seconds ago.”

“Like this?” asked Peter, turning the gun to pull the slide back.

Clint’s eyes widened. “No! No, don’t point it at yourself!”

Peter panicked and dropped the gun. Quinn lifted her head, intrigued by the new shiny metal thing on the floor.

“Not for you,” said Natasha. “And not for Peter either, apparently.”

Hill managed not to laugh this time, though seemingly by a narrow margin.

“You’re doing great, it’s okay!” Clint said to Peter. “Just… keep it pointed away, alright?”

“Alright.” Peter leaned down and picked up the gun, abashed.

Clint clapped his shoulder in reassurance. “You’re doing fine. Here, I’ll go through the steps with this gun and you can just follow along.”

Peter nodded, watching and copying Clint as he disassembled the second gun. When they finished, Clint gave him a high-five.

“Cleaning time?” Peter asked.

“You bet! First, we want to clean inside the barrel, so what we’re gonna do is- Hang on, where did I put the solvent? Oh, here it is. We soak the patches with this stuff and push them through the barrel to get the gunk out.” 

Clint opened the bottle of solvent; when the smell hit Peter, his stomach twisted uncomfortably. 

“Alright there, Peter?” Hill asked.

“It just…” Peter coughed a bit, his eyes watering. “It’s strong.”

Clint smacked his forehead before Hill could smack it for him. “Right! I always forget that you’re supposed to do this somewhere with ventilation. Nat and I just do it here ‘cause we’re used to the smell. Which… That’s probably bad, isn’t it? Hey JARVIS, do you do ventilation?”

“I’ve turned on interior circulation. I would also recommend opening a window,” JARVIS replied.

Clint scurried over to push a window open. “Since when do we have interior circulation? Just out of curiosity?”

“The feature has existed throughout your stay in this apartment. I’ve taken the liberty of turning it on whenever I’ve noticed potent substances lying around.”

“Huh,” Clint said, returning to his seat. “That’s pretty neat.”

“You’re welcome,” JARVIS replied, sounding dry.

Peter snickered a little bit as it became easier to breathe. 

Clint cleared his throat. “ _Anyway_ , gun cleaning. Here, take this patch and push it through the barrel. Make sure you pull it out through the other end, otherwise the gunk just gets put back in. And start from the back! If you hit the muzzle with your cleaning rod, the gun can malfunction.”

“Really?” Peter almost dropped the gun again.

“Yeah, but you’re doing great! Look at you go, cleaning your first gun! Maria, you should take a picture!”

“I’ve taken a few already,” Hill said. “I was thinking about showing them to Pepper and giving her a heart attack.”

Clint snorted, but quickly sobered. “Wait, no, don’t! Then she’ll be mad at me, too.”

Hill tilted her head. “Yeah, maybe a little bit.”

“I’m gonna die,” Clint murmured, rummaging through his bag of supplies and straightening up with a weird twisty brush in hand. “Okay, Peter, time to use the bore brush. Run this through the barrel a few times, alright?”

“Got it,” said Peter, taking the brush. 

“When you’re done, it’s back to the patches and solvent.”

Peter wrinkled his nose.

“Yeah,” Clint said, glancing at Natasha. “It’s kinda annoying.”

Natasha made a tsking sound and tickled Quinn’s belly. “ _Boys_.”

“In French, ‘boy’ is _garçon_ ,” Hill told Peter. “But it’s often shortened to _gars_.”

“ _Gars_ ,” Peter repeated.

“It can also mean ‘guy’, or, if it’s plural, ‘guys’,” said Hill. “ _Mon petit gars_ means ‘my little boy’ or ‘my lad’, but _quoi de neuf les gars?_ means ‘what’s new, guys?’”

“Cool!” Peter said. “I think I like French.”

Hill’s eyes crinkled. “Good.”

“Nerds!”

“Shut up, Clint,” Hill said.

Clint had the foresight to duck before Hill could thwap him over the head.

“Are you done with the bore brush? Here’s another solvent patch.”

Peter dutifully pushed a few more patches through the barrel, then followed Clint’s lead in moving on to the gun oil, which didn’t smell much better than the solvent. They were nearly done when there was a knock on the door, and Steve was poking his head through.

“Can Buck and I come in? JARVIS said everyone was in here.”

“Sure,” Natasha chirped, beckoning them into the apartment. 

Steve’s eyebrows lifted as he took in the scene in front of him. Bucky didn’t seem to notice anything amiss; he wheeled his way over to Peter to ruffle his hair, then maneuvered towards Natasha to kiss her cheek and greet Quinn, whose tail flailed violently at the sight of him. She hopped into his lap, scrambling to cover his chin in kisses. He smiled.

“Sorry, um… Why does Peter have a gun?” Steve asked. “Isn’t he a bit… young?”

Natasha gave him a distasteful look. “I learned when I was half his age. Less, even.”

“Okay, but those were… exceptional circumstances,” Steve said carefully. “Don’t you think-”

“Leave it, pal,” Bucky told him. “She could wipe the floor with you.”

“I know she could,” said Steve. “I just think that maybe Peter should be doing more age-appropriate things instead of cleaning guns.”

Natasha gave Steve a _look_ , one that Peter was glad that he wasn’t on the receiving end of.

“Okay, here’s how I see it,” said Clint, before Steve could keep arguing his case. “That ship, the whole age-appropriate, being a child one, that sailed before we even met him. We can’t just treat him like a little kid, even though he is one, ‘cause he lost that when he started fighting bad guys and sacrificing his wellbeing for the sake of protecting others. We can’t expect him to be all innocent and skip around like he hasn’t suffered. We can’t expect him to, I dunno, go to the movies with his friends or play video games all the time. Sometimes? Sure. But other times, he needs to do things that most people his age wouldn’t, like working on moves for combat or learning about guns. Because that’ll help keep him alive when he’s fighting adults, like an adult. Does that make sense? Like, actually, did it? Because sometimes my mouth makes sentences and sometimes it makes, like, not sentences, so…”

“You made sentences,” Natasha told him. “Good ones.”

Clint pumped his fist, mouthing, “Out of the doghouse!”

Natasha rolled her eyes before turning back to Steve, who was rubbing the back of his head.

“I guess… those are some good points.”

Bucky covered his mouth with his metal hand. “A historic moment. Steven G. Rogers, admitting he’s wrong.”

“Shut up, Buck,” Steve said.

Bucky met Peter’s eyes, the corners of his lips twitching. Peter covered a giggle.

“Honestly, Clint, I’m really impressed,” Hill commented. “You actually talked about serious life issues without putting your foot in your mouth or panicking and running away.”

“You know, I probably should’ve been offended by that, but I’m gonna take it as a compliment,” said Clint. “Thanks!”

“She did say she was impressed,” Bucky agreed. “That’s rare from Hill.”

Clint beamed. “Right? Ooh, do I get a prize for adulting? Ooh ooh, can I come to Hair Club?! I was emotionally competent and my hair looks good today!”

Hill and Natasha looked at each other, seemingly having an entire conversation with their eyes.

“We’ll see,” Natasha finally said. “If you keep up the hair maintenance, we’ll consider it.”

Clint gave a flail of delight that was distinctly reminiscent of Quinn. “Heck yeah! JARVIS, can you remind me to get a haircut? And to go to the… hair store? Is that a thing? It has to be a thing. I’m gonna crush this!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Salut - Hi  
> Je vais lui apprendre un peu de français. Est-ce que tu veux m’aider? - I’m going to teach him a bit of French. Do you want to help me?  
> Feuille - Leaf
> 
> \----
> 
> I never specified earlier in this series how Clint's hearing is (at least to my memory), but I sort of like to think of him in this series as similar to me: has hearing loss that sometimes hinders comprehension, but it's just sort of normal, so... yeah. (I don't wear hearing aids or know ASL - I learned some when I was younger back when the hearing loss was profound enough to hinder my speech, but I had a couple surgeries to correct things, and I've unfortunately forgotten almost all of it now.)
> 
> Also, you might've noticed that Bucky was using his wheelchair instead of his braces. Why? He felt like it. It sort of shows that he's growing more comfortable with himself. He has recognized that he doesn't have to be walking all the time to feel 'normal' - indeed, 'normal' for him can be whatever he wants it to be. He's realizing that no matter his ability, he is a valuable human being, just as much so as everyone else (if not better - I mean, in a wheelchair, he always has a lap open for Quinn or Cat Eleanor, right?).
> 
> Thank you all so much for being so patient in your wait for this chapter! I can't say that I know when I'll update next, unfortunately... It could be in two weeks and it could be in four weeks, if life keeps kicking my butt. Fingers crossed for the former!
> 
> Also, my wonderful pal Faye is looking for a beta reader! Faye has helped me so much with working out ideas for this fic, so if you're a beta who has time, you should totally contact [@fangirl-faye](http://fangirl-faye.tumblr.com/)!


	35. Not a chapter yet, but an explanation

Hi folks,

It's been a while since I've posted a chapter. Many apologies. The good news is that the upcoming one is about 2/3 of the way complete! The bad news is that I just don't have the time to finish it at the moment. I was expecting things to calm down in life (I've been saying that for months) and suffice to say, they haven't. I've been putting in 12+ hour days of studying that's hard on my brain and work that's hard on my body, and I'm absolutely exhausted when I'm finally done, which means I don't have the brainpower or energy to write good content for all of you. So the lack of updates isn't for lack of trying! I'd like to thank everyone who has been bearing with me during the dry spell - I appreciate you all very much! Thank you for waiting patiently while I work on keeping myself afloat :)

My apologies for any grammatical errors - I tried, but my brain very much wants to do some snoozing.

Best,  
-DJ


	36. Why I haven't updated in eons

Hi, folks. I just wanted to let you all know what's up. As you may know, I haven't posted a new chapter in ages. That's because I've been busy as heck! I recently got another job, so I'm now working two jobs five days a week on top of being a full-time student, as well as doing stuff with a couple local organizations. I've just been so exhausted when I finish all my work that I haven't been up to writing this story. Unfortunately, I don't foresee that changing in the near future, but I promise that I'm not giving up. It might take me a couple months, a few months, or even longer to have the time to write, but I will finish this story eventually! I'd also just like to thank you all so much for your kind, encouraging comments on my last little life update. I haven't responded to them because I don't have the time to write replies that express how sincerely I appreciate you all, but I promise that I've read every single one! I love you all dearly and I hope you all are doing well. Hopefully you'll hear from me again sooner rather than later. Hugs! -DJ

Also, feel free to let me know how you've been doing in the comments below. It may take quite a while, but I will reply this time! (It feels odd to tell you what's up with me and not ask about all of you!)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Protector (Inspired by the “Peter & Bucky Are Pals” Series by DJ_unicornsrgr8)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14542482) by [luxcurious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxcurious/pseuds/luxcurious)
  * [Avengers Creed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15151814) by [redshineJasper (MrsPummeluff)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsPummeluff/pseuds/redshineJasper)




End file.
